“But I trust not as clumsy as one,” said Madame Obosky, stretching her body in luxurious abandon. “I sit on the floor like zat, my friend, because my back is tired, not my legs. If I lie back in ze deck chair when I am tired, I would relax,—and would make so much more regret for myself when the time came to get up again. Besides, it is a good way to rest, zis way. Have you never tried it? Do, sometime. The whole body rests, it sags; the muscles have nothing to do, so they become soft and grateful. The backbone, the shoulders, the neck,—they all droop and oh, zey—they are so happy to be like zat. It is the same as when I am asleep and they are not running errands all the time for my brain. The Arab sits like zat when he rests,—and the Hindoo,—and they are strong, oh, so very strong. Try it, sometime, Miss Clinton, when you are very tired. It is the best way to let go, all over.”
Ruth laughed. “I couldn't do it to save my soul.”
“Oh, I do not mean for you to get up as I did, or use your leg as I did. You could not do zat. You are too old. That is one of the fruits, one of the benefits of the cruelest kind of child labour. I was a great many years in making myself able to do zat. See! Put your hand on my leg. Now my back,—my arm. What you think, eh?”
Ruth, in some embarrassment, had shyly obeyed her. The dancer's thigh was like a column of warm iron; her waist, free as ever from stays, was firm and somehow suggestive of actual resilience; her shoulders and back possessed the hard, rippling muscles of a well-developed boy; her shapely forearm was as hard as steel. Ruth marvelled.
“How strong you are!” she cried; “and yet you are slight. You are not as big as I am, but oh, how much stronger you are!”
“I have a perfect figure,” said Olga calmly. “It is worth preserving. No one admires my body so much as I do myself. I must not get fat. When you are a fat old woman, I shall still be as I am now. You will diet, and pray, and rave,—because you are growing old,—and I shall do none of these things. I eat like a pig, I never pray, and I do not believe in growing old. But you do not come to see me about myself, Miss Clinton. You find me sitting idly with my legs crossed, and you are surprise. I work as I dance,—very, oh, so very hard while I am at ze task,—but with frequent periods of rest. So I do not wear out myself too soon. It is the only way. Work for an hour, rest for ten minutes,—relax and forget,—and you will see how well it goes. Why do you come? Is it to talk about the baby?”
“Yes, it is, Madame Obosky. I have come to ask you to use your influence with Mr. Percival. You—”
“But I have no influence with Mr. Percivail,” interrupted the other, staring.
Ruth flushed. “You are his friend. You—”
“Ah, yes,—but nothing more than zat. You too are his friend, Miss Clinton.”