It had made her
uncomfortable in much the same way as we are wildly ill at ease
when we dream of walking naked in a crowded street. At odd moments
during the day Sophy had found herself rubbing the spot furiously
with her unlovely handkerchief, and shivering a little. She had
never told the other girls about that kiss.
So--there you have Sophy and her costume. You may take her or
leave her. I purposely placed these defects in costuming right at
the beginning of the story, so that there should be no false
pretenses. One more detail. About Sophy's throat was a slender,
near-gold chain from which was suspended a cheap and glittering La
Valliere. Sophy had not intended it as a sop to the conventions.
It was an offering on the shrine of Fashion, and represented many
lunchless days.
At eleven o'clock one August morning, Louie came to Chicago
from Oskaloosa, Iowa. There was no hay in his hair. The comic
papers have long insisted that the country boy, on his first visit
to the city, is known by his greased boots and his high-water
pants. Don't you believe them. The small-town boy is as
fastidious about the height of his heels and the stripe of his
shift and the roll of his hat-brim as are his city brothers. He
peruses the slangily worded ads of the "classy clothes" tailors,
and when scarlet cravats are worn the small-town boy is not more
than two weeks late in acquiring one that glows like a headlight.
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