“What advertisement?” Amory asked. She had forgotten all about the Ararat Coat. But now she remembered.... “Oh, that waterproof thing! Oh, you don’t want me to sign that!”
Dorothy turned quickly. “Oh, Amory, don’t be so silly!” she broke out. “Of course it doesn’t matter a button to us whether you sign it or not, but I thought you might as well. Nobody need sign it for that matter, but we have our space, and it’s a pity to waste this rain. And I really could get you the complete outfit, boots and all. As well as getting your name before the public. But don’t if you don’t want.”
Amory lifted her shallow (but penetrating) eyes.
“Well, dear—if it were really necessary—especially after all your kindness—but as you say it isn’t—if you wouldn’t very much mind—I think my signature looks better on my pictures——”
“All right. It doesn’t matter,” said Dorothy. “I’ll let you know how I go on with Mr. Dix——”
And she was gone, once more to put the Ararat and the Japhet Boots to the test of the heaviest rainfall for eighteen years.
No sooner was her back turned than Amory, flinging aside the curtain on its little rail, lay down on her unmade bed. She had the promise of her ten pounds, but it had cost its price. It had cost it in forbearance. Still, that was no more than all the poets and seers and souls dedicated to art had had to suffer before her, and she, like them, had kept her ideal unsullied.
But she was disappointed in Dorothy.