“Only for a time, and in mourning you wouldn’t notice it so much. You’d be quite accustomed to it by the time you went into colors.”
“I should feel as if a part of my personality had been lopped off.”
“On the contrary, you’d give your personality its first chance to develop itself. If you really had a hard masculine face—the kind that goes with authentic masculoid characteristics—I wouldn’t say a word. I’d not be interested enough. But your type of beauty—real beauty—is the sort to express itself through clothes. Do you really hate beautiful and expressive gowns?” she demanded. “Hate the sight of them on other women?”
“Oh, I like to look at them well enough. And I see at once if details are not right. I fancy I have what an old Frenchman I once knew called ‘le sentiment de la toilette.’ But all that is merely the same thing as knowing a good picture from a bad. I was dragged through all the picture galleries in Europe, and I lived in Paris off and on, where the women are the best dressed in the world. I appreciated them the more because I lived so much in French provincial towns, where the women are certainly the worst dressed in the world. And my mother had lovely things when I was little, and always managed to look better in old rags made over than many that spent thousands a year. But I never longed for things myself—never gave it a thought.”
“Because you had censored your mind so thoroughly. Don’t you really think that if you hadn’t—for reasons best known to yourself—adopted the rôle of pseudo-boy so young, you’d have been as feminine in all ways as other girls?”
Gita, quite unconscious of Elsie’s delicate probing into her past, answered obstinately: “Never thought about it. Or if I had I’d have been glad of another excuse to spend as little as possible on myself. We were frightfully poor, and even in San Francisco, where, for a time, we thought the worst of our troubles were over, we just about made both ends meet. At least we couldn’t save. If I’d been keen to dress like the other girls we’d have been in debt up to our necks.”
Topper, who had received instructions to keep out of the room except when he was serving, had made his final exit some time since, but the girls lingered on with their coffee and cigarettes. Elsie made a curious zigzagging movement along the table with a spoon, denting the cloth; here and there she made an upward curve or straight mark as irregular in height as the crooked line; then, suddenly, she broke off, skipped an inch, and drew a high firm object that looked not unlike a barred gate.
“What on earth are you doing?” asked Gita curiously.
“Outlining your life as I imagine it—in a hazy sort of way. It has never followed the even course of other girls of your class or you wouldn’t be what you are. These upward curves and straight marks represent abrupt changes and milestones. But that”—she pointed to the last figure—“is more than a milestone. It represents a barrier that shuts you off completely from your old life. It opened wide enough to let you through but it is closed and sealed forever. You could not go back if you wished, and I know that you wish nothing less. Behind that barrier is a life you hate to remember. Before it, where you find yourself now, are the pleasant places and all the most romantic girl could have wished for, who was not too extravagant. Position, freedom, an independent income, powerful and admiring friends, and the chance to be stared at as an authentic beauty. Don’t you think you should change with it? If you don’t you’re not as original as you look. Why! You’d be merely commonplace, obstinate, content to go on being one thing all your life. Don’t you know that the really intelligent woman these days crowds as much variety into her life as life will permit? And adds as many sides to her personality?”
“Ah!” Gita had turned pale. Her mouth was open and her nostrils dilating, as if her heart were beating irregularly. “That is something I never thought of. I do like change, and maybe I am obstinate—but I’m not commonplace! . . . Perhaps the time has come . . . anyhow I promised my grandmother I’d let Mrs. Pleyden bring me out, and dress like other girls. She was dying and had been very generous with me, and I couldn’t help promising her. But she died a day or two later and I hadn’t thought of it since. But of course I’ll have to keep my promise—and I might as well begin now of my own free will,” she added characteristically. “And if I really can’t look like a boy, what’s the use? I suppose I’m too old for such nonsense anyhow. I used to feel a lot older than I do now—and looked it, I imagine.” She shot an almost apologetic glance at Elsie, who was beaming: she knew she had succeeded where others had failed. “Reaction, I suppose, and I really never wore such an ugly hat before. . . . But I won’t—and this is positive!—ever marry, or even dance with men.”