“You are Miss Gorgas Levering, I presume?” Miss Warren made the statement with disarming graciousness.
“Miss Warren!” Gorgas ejaculated.
The child was startled by the apparition, conjuring up the photograph on Keyser’s dressing-table, that now spoke in the flesh, like an ancient figure in history suddenly come to life; and her spirits oozed. The regality of this distinguished-looking woman struck at her and took away her sense of equality. In the presence of Miss Warren one had always to struggle against an overwhelming feeling of personal inferiority.
“I am so glad you have come early,” Miss Warren ignored the exclamation. “Perhaps you would like to come in and freshen yourself after your ride.”
Miss Warren’s attire was spotless. Without a further word Gorgas realized that there was something vulgar and unclean in riding a horse. She became conscious of her dusty appearance and of Gyp’s warm, sweaty body.
“Home, Gyp,” she said, and turned his head about and patted him smartly on the flank. Gyp trotted off alone.
Miss Warren took in the unconventional attire.
“You are wearing—uh—bloomers; are you not?” she asked in a noncommittal tone.
Then Gorgas answered in a phrase she had never before used in speaking to her elders. It was the reply of servants and underlings; something she knew should not be said, but it came unbidden to her lips.
“Yes, ma’am,” she said.