“I’m understanding one thing,” Leslie leaned forward, one hand extended, “you’re a clever kid. You needn’t be ashamed of letting it be known on the campus that you are a professional. Why keep it a secret?”
“I’d rather no one here, except you, knew it,” the other girl exclaimed in quick alarm. “You must promise me you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you—my story in confidence. Promise me—”
“Don’t worry. You may rest assured no one will ever learn it from me,” Leslie interrupted. “I give you my word. There’ll be no come-back.”
“Thank you. I know I can trust you.” Alarm slowly faded from the freshman’s worried features. “There’s no disgrace in having been a circus performer,” she went on after a moment’s hesitation, her tone defensive. “The trouble is this. Circus folks are mostly misunderstood by the public at large. They aren’t low and ignorant as is too often supposed, the performers, I mean. They are sober, quiet, good-living people who are obliged to take the best possible care of themselves so as always to be in good physical trim for their work, which is generally dangerous. I’m not ashamed of my circus life, or of my circus friends. It’s not that.” She shook her black head almost vehemently. “It’s only that I’ve said good-bye to that life. I shall never again do professional trapeze work. Entering Hamilton is the beginning of my new life. I want to be like the girls are who come from aristocratic families. I’m not. I understood that much soon after I’d entered Warburton. That was hot air, most of what I said at the station—pretending I was somebody at Warburton. I—I wasn’t. I knew only a few girls—none of them belonged to the toppo social gang that ran things there.”
A bright flush mantled the little girl’s round cheeks as she made this confession. “I don’t want to be a snob—never that, but I’d love to be what the circus crowd call ‘a fine lady.’ I’d love to have poise and distinction; an air, you know.” She crested her black head in an unconscious imitation of her idea of aristocracy. “You are like that. So are those two girls who were with you at the station. The little girl was so sweet, and had such lovely manners. I’m going to try to be like her.”
“Don’t try to be like anyone but yourself,” Leslie advised emphatically. “Make your own personality count. I don’t agree with you about keeping your circus life a secret. Hamilton used to be a snob shop, but not now. Cleverness counts for more than money here. You’re an artist in your line. The girls would go crazy over your trapeze stunt, and you, if they knew about you.” Leslie already had a managerial eye upon the little girl for a vaudeville show she and Leila were in process of planning as a first offering at the Leila Harper Playhouse.
“No, no.” There was active distress in the refusal. “It wouldn’t do. Girls are queer. They might pretend to admire me here on the campus, then turn around and try to down me because I’d been with a circus.”
“The upper class students wouldn’t—”
“But I’m a freshman,” cut in Miss Ogden, “and I want to stand well with my own class. It might make a great difference. I saw that crowd of freshmen who came to the Hall this evening. They looked awfully toppo. I shouldn’t care to have them know about my circus life. I’d love to be friends with them. They certainly showed class.”
A great light suddenly burst upon Leslie. So that was the way things were with Jewel Marie. There was nothing she felt privileged to offer in the way of advice that the socially-ambitious freshman might care to hear. She would have to discover for herself that all was not gold that glittered.