The Conflict [62]
went straight up the steep hill. She arrived at the top, at the edge of the lawn before Jane's house, with somewhat heightened color and brightened eyes, but with no quickening of the breath. Her slim, solid little body had all the qualities of endurance of those wiry ponies that come from the regions her face and walk and the careless grace of her hair so delightfully suggested. As she advanced toward the house she saw a gay company assembled on the wide veranda. Jane was giving a farewell luncheon for her visitors, had asked almost a dozen of the most presentable girls in the town. It was a very fashionable affair, and everyone had dressed for it in the best she had to wear at that time of day.
Selma saw the company while there was still time for her to draw back and descend into the woods. But she knew little about conventionalities, and she cared not at all about them. She had come to see Jane; she conducted herself precisely as she would have expected any one to act who came to see her at any time. She marched straight across the lawn. The hostess, the fashionable visitors, the fashionable guests soon centered upon the extraordinary figure moving toward them under that blazing sun. The figure was extraordinary not for dress--the dress was plain and unconspicuous--but for that expression of the free and the untamed, the lack of self-consciousness so rarely seen except in children and animals. Jane rushed to the steps to welcome her, seized her extended hands and kissed her with as much enthusiasm as she kissed Jane. There was sincerity in this greeting of Jane's; but there was pose, also. Here was one of those chances to do the unconventional, the democratic thing.
``What a glorious surprise!'' cried Jane. ``You'll stop for lunch, of course?'' Then to the girls nearest them: ``This is Selma Gordon, who writes for the New Day.''
Pronouncing of names--smiles--bows--veiled glances of curiosity--several young women exchanging whispered comments of amusement. And to be sure, Selma, in that simple costume, gloveless, with dusty shoes and blown hair, did look very much out of place. But then Selma would have looked, in a sense, out of place anywhere but in a wilderness with perhaps a few tents and a half-tamed herd as background. In another sense, she seemed in place anywhere as any natural object must.
``I don't eat lunch,'' said Selma. ``But I'll stay if you'll put me next to you and let me talk to you.''
She did not realize what an upsetting of order and precedence this request, which seemed so simple to her, involved. Jane hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. ``Why, certainly,'' said she. ``Now that I've got you I'd not let you go in any circumstances.''
Selma was gazing around at the other girls with the frank and pleased curiosity of a child. ``Gracious, what pretty clothes!'' she cried--she was addressing Miss Clearwater, of Cincinnati. ``I've read about this sort of thing in novels and in society columns of newspapers. But I never saw it before. ISN'T it interesting!''
Miss Clearwater, whose father was a United States Senator--by purchase--had had experience of many oddities, male and female. She also was attracted by Selma's sparkling delight, and by the magnetic charm which she irradiated as a rose its perfume. ``Pretty clothes are attractive, aren't they?'' said she, to be saying something.
``I don't know a thing about clothes,'' confessed Selma. ``I've never owned at the same time more than two dresses fit to wear--usually only one. And quite enough for me. I'd only be fretted by a lot of things of that kind. But I like to see them on other people. If I had my way the whole world would be well dressed.''
``Except you?'' said Ellen Clearwater with a smile.
``I couldn't be well dressed if I tried,'' replied Selma. ``When I was a child I was the despair of my mother. Most of the people in the tenement where we lived were very dirty and disorderly--naturally enough, as they had no knowledge and no money and no time. But mother had ideas of
Selma saw the company while there was still time for her to draw back and descend into the woods. But she knew little about conventionalities, and she cared not at all about them. She had come to see Jane; she conducted herself precisely as she would have expected any one to act who came to see her at any time. She marched straight across the lawn. The hostess, the fashionable visitors, the fashionable guests soon centered upon the extraordinary figure moving toward them under that blazing sun. The figure was extraordinary not for dress--the dress was plain and unconspicuous--but for that expression of the free and the untamed, the lack of self-consciousness so rarely seen except in children and animals. Jane rushed to the steps to welcome her, seized her extended hands and kissed her with as much enthusiasm as she kissed Jane. There was sincerity in this greeting of Jane's; but there was pose, also. Here was one of those chances to do the unconventional, the democratic thing.
``What a glorious surprise!'' cried Jane. ``You'll stop for lunch, of course?'' Then to the girls nearest them: ``This is Selma Gordon, who writes for the New Day.''
Pronouncing of names--smiles--bows--veiled glances of curiosity--several young women exchanging whispered comments of amusement. And to be sure, Selma, in that simple costume, gloveless, with dusty shoes and blown hair, did look very much out of place. But then Selma would have looked, in a sense, out of place anywhere but in a wilderness with perhaps a few tents and a half-tamed herd as background. In another sense, she seemed in place anywhere as any natural object must.
``I don't eat lunch,'' said Selma. ``But I'll stay if you'll put me next to you and let me talk to you.''
She did not realize what an upsetting of order and precedence this request, which seemed so simple to her, involved. Jane hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. ``Why, certainly,'' said she. ``Now that I've got you I'd not let you go in any circumstances.''
Selma was gazing around at the other girls with the frank and pleased curiosity of a child. ``Gracious, what pretty clothes!'' she cried--she was addressing Miss Clearwater, of Cincinnati. ``I've read about this sort of thing in novels and in society columns of newspapers. But I never saw it before. ISN'T it interesting!''
Miss Clearwater, whose father was a United States Senator--by purchase--had had experience of many oddities, male and female. She also was attracted by Selma's sparkling delight, and by the magnetic charm which she irradiated as a rose its perfume. ``Pretty clothes are attractive, aren't they?'' said she, to be saying something.
``I don't know a thing about clothes,'' confessed Selma. ``I've never owned at the same time more than two dresses fit to wear--usually only one. And quite enough for me. I'd only be fretted by a lot of things of that kind. But I like to see them on other people. If I had my way the whole world would be well dressed.''
``Except you?'' said Ellen Clearwater with a smile.
``I couldn't be well dressed if I tried,'' replied Selma. ``When I was a child I was the despair of my mother. Most of the people in the tenement where we lived were very dirty and disorderly--naturally enough, as they had no knowledge and no money and no time. But mother had ideas of