Miss Gibson enunciated this information with a glibness that suggested many previous recitations. When she had finished, with disconcerting abruptness, she asked Jeannette if she thought she could do the work. The girl, taken aback, could only stare blankly; she had no idea whether she could do it or not; she shook her head aimlessly. Miss Gibson frowned.
“Well,—we’ll see what you can do,” she declared. “Miss Rosen,” she called, and as a young Jewess came toward them, she directed: “Take Miss—Miss”—she glanced at her notes,—“Sturgis to the cloak room, and bring her back here.”
Jeannette’s mind was a confused jumble. “They won’t kill me,—they won’t eat me,” she found herself thinking.
Presently she stood before Miss Gibson once more. The woman glanced at her, and rose.
“Come this way.” They walked toward the young man she had previously indicated.
“Mr. Beardsley, try this girl out. She comes from the Gerard School, but she’s had no practical experience.”
Jeannette looked into a pleasant boy’s face. He had an even row of glittering white teeth, a small, quaint mouth that stretched tightly across them when he smiled, blue eyes, and rather unruly stuck-up hair.
She wanted to please him—she could please him—he seemed nice.
“Miss—Miss—I beg pardon,—Miss Gibson did not mention the name.”
“Sturgis.”