At the school I learned that the shortest course was for six months, and the lowest price was one hundred dollars. The head of the school smilingly informed me that as I might not have to study English a reduction, perhaps ten dollars, might be arranged for.
Returning to the “placement bureau,” I applied to the same overdressed individual for part-time work that would give me my maintenance while I was studying to become a secretary. She gave me cards of introduction to the matron of two institutions.
CHAPTER VIII
ST. ROSE’S HOME FOR GIRLS
Mrs. Bossman, the matron of St. Rose’s Home for Girls, which I reached after a railroad journey of several hours, received me with great cordiality. She was very much in need of a secretary, she said, and, while not able to pay a salary, would be glad to give me a comfortable room with my board and laundry. I promised to move in, bag and baggage, the following morning immediately after breakfast. At our first interview she impressed me so favorably that I failed to notice either the thinness of her lips or the color of her eyes.
On my return the following morning she again greeted me with great cordiality. And even as I accepted her extended hand the color and expression of her eyes, and the thinness of her lips were revealed to me as though by a blaze of light. With this realization there flashed across my memory a remark of the late Mrs. Jefferson Davis.
I had been to the opera—“Faust” with a wonderful caste, Eames and the two de Reski. On my return I went into Mrs. Davis’ bedroom—I was spending the winter in New York under her chaperonage—to tell her about it. She was sitting up in bed reading, and laying her book aside she listened attentively to my praise of Marguerite and Faust, and my criticism of Mephisto. Then I boldly declared:
“Only a tall, thin man, intensely brunette, should attempt to play the devil.”
“A tall, thin, dark man?” Mrs. Davis questioned, shaking her head. Then she took off her spectacles and wiped them. “No, my dear. No. My idea of the devil is a beautiful blonde woman with childishly innocent blue eyes and thin lips. Yes, the devil is a woman. I’m sure of it. Only a woman of the type I describe will conceive, plan, and perpetrate a deed of supremest cruelty and selfishness. I never trust a blonde woman.”
What queer ideas old women have! As if the color of a person’s eyes and hair really had anything to do with the quality of their heart. Then there popped into my mind a lawyer, a member of the New York City bar in good standing, who had gravely cautioned me against trusting a man who “ran-down” his shoes. Evidently queerness was not limited to old women.
But a woman with the intelligence of the widow of the President of the Confederacy—the thousands of persons she had met and known during her eighty years—might not her judgment be of value? All of these thoughts raced through my consciousness during the brief instant that Mrs. Bossman clasped my hand. Vexed by what seemed to me my own trivial mind, I was pleased by her suggestion to take me to my room.