The Dust [25]
"There are many things I feel and do--and I don't at all understand why. But--" An expression of startling resolu- tion flashed across her face. "But I do them, just the same."
A brief silence; then, as she again moved toward the door, he said, "You have been working for some time?"
"Four years."
"You support yourself?"
"I work to help out father's income. He makes almost enough, but not quite."
Almost enough! The phrase struck upon Norman's fancy as both amusing and sad. Almost enough for what? For keeping body and soul together; for keeping body barely decently clad. Yet she was content. He said:
"You like to work?"
"Not yet. But I think I shall when I learn this business. One feels secure when one has a trade."
"It doesn't impress me as an interesting life for a girl of your age," he suggested.
"Oh, I'm not unhappy. And at home, of evenings and Sundays, I'm happy."
"Doing what?"
"Reading and talking with father and--doing the housework--and all the rest of it."
What a monotonous narrow little life! He wanted to pity her, but somehow he could not. There was no suggestion in her manner that she was an object of pity. "What did Miss Burroughs say to you--if I may ask?"
"Certainly. You sent me, and I'm much obliged to you. I realize it was an opportunity--for another sort of girl. I half tried to accept because I knew refusing was only my--queerness." She smiled charmingly. "You are not offended because I couldn't make myself take it?"
"Not in the least." And all at once he felt that it was true. This girl would have been out of place in service. "What was the offer?"
Suddenly before him there appeared a clever, willful child, full of the childish passion for imitation and mockery. And she proceeded to "take off" the grand Miss Burroughs--enough like Josephine to give the satire point and barb. He could see Josephine resolved to be affable and equal, to make this doubtless bedazzled stray from the "lower classes" feel comfortable in those palatial surroundings. She imitated Josephine's walk, her way of looking, her voice for the menials--gracious and condescending. The exhibition was clever, free from malice, redolent of humor. Norman laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"You ought to go on the stage," said he. "How Josephine--Miss Burroughs would appreciate it! For she's got a keen sense of humor."
"Not for the real jokes--like herself," replied Miss Hallowell.
"You're prejudiced."
"No. I see her as she is. Probably everyone else --those around her--see her money and her clothes and all that. But I saw--just her."
He nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked penetratingly at her. "How did you happen to learn to do that?" he asked. "To see people as they are?"
"Father taught me." Her eyes lighted up, her whole expression changed. She became beautiful with the beauty of an intense and adoring love. "Father is a wonderful man--one of the most wonderful that ever lived. He----"
There was a knock at the door. She startled, he looked confused. Both awakened to a sense of their forgotten surroundings, of who and what they were. She went and Mr. Sanders entered. But even in his confusion Norman marveled at the vanishing of the fascinating personality who had been captivating him into forgetting everything else, at the reappearance of the blank, the pale and insignificant personality attached to a typewriting machine at ten dollars a week. No, not insignificant, not blank--never again that, for him. He saw now the full reality--and also why he, everyone, was so misled. She made him think of the surface of the sea when the sky is gray and the air calm. It lies smooth and flat and expressionless--inert, monotonous. But let sunbeam strike or breeze ever so faint start up, and what a commotion of unending variety! He could never look at her again without being reminded of those infinite latent possibilities, without wondering what new and perhaps more charming, more surprising varieties of look and tone and manner could
A brief silence; then, as she again moved toward the door, he said, "You have been working for some time?"
"Four years."
"You support yourself?"
"I work to help out father's income. He makes almost enough, but not quite."
Almost enough! The phrase struck upon Norman's fancy as both amusing and sad. Almost enough for what? For keeping body and soul together; for keeping body barely decently clad. Yet she was content. He said:
"You like to work?"
"Not yet. But I think I shall when I learn this business. One feels secure when one has a trade."
"It doesn't impress me as an interesting life for a girl of your age," he suggested.
"Oh, I'm not unhappy. And at home, of evenings and Sundays, I'm happy."
"Doing what?"
"Reading and talking with father and--doing the housework--and all the rest of it."
What a monotonous narrow little life! He wanted to pity her, but somehow he could not. There was no suggestion in her manner that she was an object of pity. "What did Miss Burroughs say to you--if I may ask?"
"Certainly. You sent me, and I'm much obliged to you. I realize it was an opportunity--for another sort of girl. I half tried to accept because I knew refusing was only my--queerness." She smiled charmingly. "You are not offended because I couldn't make myself take it?"
"Not in the least." And all at once he felt that it was true. This girl would have been out of place in service. "What was the offer?"
Suddenly before him there appeared a clever, willful child, full of the childish passion for imitation and mockery. And she proceeded to "take off" the grand Miss Burroughs--enough like Josephine to give the satire point and barb. He could see Josephine resolved to be affable and equal, to make this doubtless bedazzled stray from the "lower classes" feel comfortable in those palatial surroundings. She imitated Josephine's walk, her way of looking, her voice for the menials--gracious and condescending. The exhibition was clever, free from malice, redolent of humor. Norman laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks.
"You ought to go on the stage," said he. "How Josephine--Miss Burroughs would appreciate it! For she's got a keen sense of humor."
"Not for the real jokes--like herself," replied Miss Hallowell.
"You're prejudiced."
"No. I see her as she is. Probably everyone else --those around her--see her money and her clothes and all that. But I saw--just her."
He nodded thoughtfully. Then he looked penetratingly at her. "How did you happen to learn to do that?" he asked. "To see people as they are?"
"Father taught me." Her eyes lighted up, her whole expression changed. She became beautiful with the beauty of an intense and adoring love. "Father is a wonderful man--one of the most wonderful that ever lived. He----"
There was a knock at the door. She startled, he looked confused. Both awakened to a sense of their forgotten surroundings, of who and what they were. She went and Mr. Sanders entered. But even in his confusion Norman marveled at the vanishing of the fascinating personality who had been captivating him into forgetting everything else, at the reappearance of the blank, the pale and insignificant personality attached to a typewriting machine at ten dollars a week. No, not insignificant, not blank--never again that, for him. He saw now the full reality--and also why he, everyone, was so misled. She made him think of the surface of the sea when the sky is gray and the air calm. It lies smooth and flat and expressionless--inert, monotonous. But let sunbeam strike or breeze ever so faint start up, and what a commotion of unending variety! He could never look at her again without being reminded of those infinite latent possibilities, without wondering what new and perhaps more charming, more surprising varieties of look and tone and manner could