"Have you got long white gloves?" asked Mary Hinkle, as they
walked up Broadway, she carrying the dress and Susan the hat box.
"Only a few pairs of short ones."
"You must have long white gloves--and a pair of white stockings."
"I can't afford them."
"Oh, Jeffries told me to ask you--and to go to work and buy
them if you hadn't."
They stopped at Wanamaker's. Susan was about to pay, when Mary
stopped her. "If you pay," said she, "maybe you'll get your
money back from the house, and maybe you won't. If I pay,
they'll not make a kick on giving it back to me."
The dress Mary had selected was a simple white batiste, cut out
at the neck prettily, and with the elbow sleeves that were then
the fashion. "Your arms and throat are lovely," said Mary.
"And your hands are mighty nice, too--that's why I'm sure
you've never been a real working girl--leastways, not for a
long time. When you get to the restaurant and draw off your
gloves in a slow, careless, ladylike kind of way, and put your
elbows on the table--my, how he will take on!" Mary looked at
her with an intense but not at all malignant envy. "If you don't
land high, it'll be because you're a fool. And you ain't that."
"I'm afraid I am," replied Susan. "Yes, I guess I'm what's
called a fool--what probably is a fool."
"You want to look out then," warned Miss Hinkle. "You want to
go to work and get over that.
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