“Our Zola,” she hurried on, “is not so simple as you think.
“You remember she is rescued from a car-load of soft coal, very black, and she is scrubbed up?”
“Yes.” Florence smiled.
“Well!” Jeanne struck a dramatic pose. “When she is washed up she is introduced to the president of the railroad. He thinks she is a—how would you say it?—a ‘wow’!
“So! He takes her home. He has a son and a daughter about her own age. This daughter dresses her up in this.” She touched the filmy gown.
“They are in a place like this.” She glanced about the apartment. “Only grander, much grander; you know: high ceilings, marble pillars, ancestral portraits, butler, and all that.” She threw her arms wide.
“When they have dressed our Zola of the box car up, she does like this.”
Once again she went drifting like a butterfly across the room and again alighted upon her downy perch.
“And then,” she cried exultantly, “they know she is a wow!”
“But, Jeanne,” Florence objected, “where could a little mountain girl learn that dance?”