But few of Sophy's
customers were shocked. They were mainly chorus girls and ladies
of doubtful complexion in search of cheap and ultra footgear,
and--to use a health term--hardened by exposure.
Have I told you how pretty she was? She was so pretty that
you immediately forgave her the indecency of her pitiful little
gown. She was pretty in a daringly demure fashion, like a wicked
little Puritan, or a poverty-stricken Cleo de Merode, with her
smooth brown hair parted in the middle, drawn severely down over
her ears, framing the lovely oval of her face and ending in a
simple coil at the neck. Some serpent's wisdom had told Sophy to
eschew puffs. But I think her prettiness could have triumphed even
over those.
If Sophy's boss had been any other sort of man he would have
informed Sophy, sternly, that black princess effects, cut low, were
not au fait in the shoe-clerk world. But Sophy's boss had a
rhombic nose, and no instep, and the tail of his name had been
amputated. He didn't care how Sophy wore her dresses so long as
she sold shoes.
Once the boss had kissed Sophy--not on the mouth, but just
where her shabby gown formed its charming but immodest V. Sophy
had slapped him, of course. But the slap had not set the thing
right in her mind. She could not forget it.
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