“I left some robes in the rooms,” Cara said indifferently. “I thought the girls would hardly bring any, just around the corner.” This was Cara’s way of doing kindness without display.
And this was Barbara’s chance to mention the college gown. She hesitated. Pride was stronger than reason with her, and she didn’t know that all her boasted frankness about her humble place in life, about her home-made clothes, her own-made hats, her preference for study instead of for play—all this was merely humoring her pride. And yet it had been brave of her to accept and make the most of her position. Thousands of girls might consider her “well off,” and very fortunate because, compared to themselves, she was fortunate. Compared to Cara Burke she was poor. Of course it was all merely a matter of what one compared with.
Barbara watched Cara brush her hair. It was bobbed, of course, but lovely and glossy, crow black, and it encased Cara’s head like a sculptured cap.
“Your hair is lovely,” Babs said as she watched her. “Aren’t you dreadfully tired of curls?”
“Well, since I’ve never had any I suppose I’m not really tired of them, but I do think the boys have the best of us in the matter of hair styles.” She paused in her brushing to make a better part. “If we just got used to ourselves fixed up more simply I suppose we would like ourselves quite as well.”
“Surely we would,” chimed in Babs. “It’s only training. Our eyes expect certain effects and we feel we must humor our eyes.”
Cara laid her brush down on the dressing table and swung around to face Barbara.
“You know an awful lot, don’t you Babs?” she said. Her tone was filled with admiration.
“Why, no I don’t, Cara. About lots of things I am terribly—ignorant.”
“I mean in your way of thinking things out. Dud says you’re as smart as a boy, and that from Dud is—something!”