“Well, the flat and the chaperon are still in the future. The first question is, what are you going into? You used to write such good essays at school and your letters are clever. Why not newspaper work?”
“But what could I do?”
“Get a trial as a reporter.”
Before Emily’s mind came a vision of a ball she had attended in Washington less than two years before—the lofty entrance, the fashionable guests incrowding from their carriages; at one side, a dingy group, two seedy-looking men and a homely, dowdy woman, taking notes of names and costumes. She shuddered.
Theresa noted the shudder, and laid her hand on Emily’s arm. “You must drop that, my dear—you must, must, must.”
Emily coloured. “I will, will, will,” she said with a guilty laugh. “But, Theresa, you understand, don’t you?”
“Oh, yes, I remember. But I’ve left all that behind—at least I’ve tried to. You’ve got to be just like a man when he makes the start. As Mr. Marlowe was saying the other night, it’s no worse than being a bank messenger and presenting notes to men who can’t pay; or being a lawyer’s clerk and handing people dreadful papers that they throw in your face. No matter where you start there are hard knocks. And——”
“I know it, I expect it, and I’m not sorry that it is so. It’s part of the price of learning to live. I’m not complaining.”
“I hope you’ll be able to say that a year from now. I confess I did, and do, complain. I can’t get over my resentment at the injustice of it. Why doesn’t everybody see that we’re all in the same boat and that snubbing and sneering only make it harder all round?”
Emily had expected to find the Theresa of school days developed along the lines that were promising. Instead, she found the Theresa of school days changed chiefly by deterioration. She was undeniably attractive—a handsome, magnetic, shrewd young woman full of animal spirits. But her dress was just beyond the line of good taste, and on inspection revealed tawdriness and lapses; her manners were a little too pronounced in their freedom; her speech barely escaped license. Her effort to show hostility to conventions was impudent rather than courageous. Worst of all, she had lost that finish of refinement which makes merits shine and dims even serious defects. She had cultivated a shallow cynicism—of the concert hall and the “society” play. It took all the brightness of her eyes, all the brilliance of her teeth, all her physical charm to overcome the impression of this gloze of reckless smartness.