“So I’ve sent her to you, Andy.” And Gloria outlined her hopeful programme for Darcy.
“Grmph!” snorted the trainer. “Will she stand the gaff, d’ yah think?”
“She’ll have to,” chuckled Gloria. “If she doesn’t, let me know. I’ve got a hold over her.”
The mere process of purchasing has an inspiriting effect upon the feminine psychology. By the time Darcy had acquired her simple gymnasium outfit, her fears were forgotten in optimism. With such appropriate clothes the experiment must be a success! Proudly she arrayed herself in them, upon arrival at Mr. Andy Dunne’s academy at the hour set; the close-fitting, rather scratchy tights, the scant and skirtless trousers, the light canvas shoes, the warmly enveloping sweater, and the rubber cap to keep her hair from interfering with her exertions. Thus appareled, Darcy quite esteemed herself as an athlete. She could already feel her muscular potentialities developing beneath the rough, stimulant cloth. She thought lightly of the various apparatus awaiting her in the “shop”; playthings of her coming prowess. She would show Mr. Andy Dunne what an apt and earnest devotee of the vigorous life could achieve. Thus uplifted she went forth with a confident smile to meet the man who, for weary months, was to fill a large part of her life.
At sight of her Mr. Dunne, schooled though he was in self-restraint, barely suppressed a groan of pained surprise. That garb which had so pleased Darcy, however much it may have been an inspiration to her, was a revelation to the dismayed eyes of her instructor. To Gloria Greene, one of the few people with whom he forgot his reticence, he afterwards made his little plaint.
“If they’re fat, I can sweat ’em. If they’re skinny, I can pad ’em with muscle. But this squab, she’s fat and skinny all in the wrong places.”
Half hopeful that he might discover some disabling symptom, he tested her heart and her breathing. All was normal. He noted her yellowish eyes, her sallow skin, the beginning of a fold under her chin, the slackness of her posture.
“How old are yah?” he demanded.
“Just twenty-one.”
“Grmph!” barked Mr. Dunne, in a tone which unflatteringly suggested surprise, but also relief. “Well we gotta getta work.”