“But you need not always be poor,” Dorothy told her. “There are plenty of chances for bright young girls to better themselves. But, of course, they must go to school first.”
It was “school” that always halted Urania. She “drew the line at school,” as Tavia expressed it.
Finally the shoes were on, and all was ready, even the big white summer hat was placed on the “golden curls,” and certainly Urania looked like Tavia!
“Let me get a good look at you out in the light,” said Dorothy, “for make-up is a treacherous thing in daylight. No, I can’t see the paint, and the powder sinks well into your hair. I think it is all right. Here, you are to carry this bag—but put your gloves on!”
It was not time for class yet, and Dorothy called Tavia out to the side porch.
Urania was smiling broadly. Tavia at first did not actually know her. Then she recognized her own clothes.
“Oh, for—good—ness sake!” she gasped. “That isn’t Urania! Well, I never—It’s too good. I’ve just got to go. I’m going to run away. I can’t stay here in this old pokey hole and miss all that fun,” and she pretended to cry, although it was plain she would not have to try very hard to produce the genuine emotion.
“I hope it will all be fun,” reflected Dorothy, “but it does seem risky—in spite. Can you tell her hair?” she asked Tavia.
“Never,” declared Tavia. “You make up so well—it’s a pity to waste yourself on Glenwood.”
“I’m glad you think it’s all right,” replied Dorothy. “You know, travelling in a train, with people right near you—”