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.
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