Polly came up and greeted Davidge with, “So you’re the fascinating brute that keeps Marie Louise down in the penitentiary of that awful ship-factory.”
Davidge indicated her brilliance and answered: “Never again. She’s fired! We can’t afford her.”
“Bully for you,” said Polly. “I suppose I’m an old-fashioned, grandmotherly sort of person, but I’ll be damned if I can see why a woman that can look as gorgeous as Marie Louise here should be pounding typewriter keys in an office. Of course, if she had to–– But even then, I should say that it would be her solemn religious duty to sell her soul for a lot of glad-rags.
“A lot of people are predicting that women will never go 250 back to the foolish frills and furbelows of before the war; but––well, I’m no prophetess, but all I can say is that if this war puts an end to the dressmaker’s art, it will certainly put civilization on the blink. Now, honestly, what could a woman accomplish in the world if she worked in overalls twenty-four hours a day for twenty-four years––what could she make that would be more worth while than getting herself all dressed up and looking her best?”
Davidge said: “You’re talking like a French aristocrat before the Revolution; but I wish you could convince her of it.”
Mamise was trying to take her triumph casually, but she was thrilled, thrilled with the supreme pride of a woman in her best clothes––in and out of her best clothes, and liberally illuminated with jewelry. She was now something like a great singer singing the highest note of her master-aria in her best rôle––herself at once the perfect instrument and the perfect artist.
Marie Louise went in on Davidge’s arm. The dining-room was in gala attire, the best silver and all of it out––flowers and candles. But the big vault was cold; the men shivered and marveled at the women, who left their wraps on the backs of their chairs and sat up in no apparent discomfort with shoulders, backs, chests, and arms naked to the chill.
Polly was moved to explain to the great folk present just who Mamise was. She celebrated Mamise in her own way.
“To look at Miss Webling, would you take her for a perfect nut? She is, though––the worst ever. Do you know what she has done? Taken up stenography and gone into the office of a ship-building gang!”
The other squaws exclaimed upon her with various out-cries of amazement.