When Mrs. Harry Cresswell called a month or so later the talk naturally
included mention of Zora. Mary was happy and vivacious, and noted the
girl's rapid development.
"I wonder what I shall make out of her?" queried Mrs. Vanderpool. "Do
you know, I believe I could mould her into a lady if she were not
black."
Mary Cresswell laughed. "With that hair?"
"It has artistic possibilities. You should have seen my hair-dresser's
face when I told her to do it up. Her face and Zora's were a pantomime
for the gods. Yet it was done. It lay in some great twisted cloud and in
that black net gown of mine Zora was simply magnificent. Her form is
perfect, her height is regal, her skin is satin, and my jewels found a
resting place at last. Jewels, you know, dear, were never meant for
white folk. I was tempted to take her to the box at the opera and let
New York break its impudent neck."
Mary was shocked.
"But, Mrs. Vanderpool," she protested, "is it right? Is it fair? Why
should you spoil this black girl and put impossible ideas into her head?
You can make her a perfect maid, but she can never be much more in
America."
"She is a perfect maid now; that's the miracle of it--she's that deft
and quick and quiet and thoughtful! The hotel employees think her
perfect; my friends rave--really, I'm the most blessed of women.
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