But these girls, outside and in—what a contrast in American social relationships they presented! During our dinner the two youths had departed and got two maids from somewhere—maids of the mildest, most summery aspect—and were now hanging about, pending our return, in order to have more words and to indicate to us the true extent of their skill as beaux and summer gentlemen in waiting. As I looked through the windows at those outside and contrasted them with those within and now waiting on us, I was struck with the difference, class for class, between the girl who chooses to work and the girl of the same station practically who would rather do something else. The girls outside were of the gum-chewing, typewriter brand of summer siren, decked in white and blue dresses of the most feathery, flouncy character, and sport coats or jackets in broad, heavy stripes, one black and white, another orange and blue, and the usual ribbon in their hair. They seemed to me to be obsessed by the idea of being summery and nonchalant and sporty and preternaturally gay—indeed, all the things which the Sunday newspaper summer girl should be—a most amazing concoction at best, and purely a reflection or imitation of the vagrant thoughts of others—copies, marsh fire. Incidentally it struck me that in the very value of things they were destined to be nothing more than the toys and playthings of men—such men as they might be able to attract—not very important, perhaps, but as vigorous and inconsequential as themselves. On the other hand, those on the inside were so much more attractive because they lacked the cunning or silly sophistication of these others and because, by the very chemistry of their being, apparently, they were drawn to routine motherhood, legitimate or otherwise.
Personally I am by no means a conventionalist. I have never been able to decide which earthly state is best. All life is good, all life, to the individual who is enjoying himself and to the Creator of all things. The sting of existence is the great thing—the sensory sting, not its vocal theories—but that shuts out the religionist and the moralist and they will damn me forever. But still I so believe. Those girls outside, and for all their fineness and fripperies, were dull; whereas, those inside (some of them anyhow) had a dreamy, placid attractiveness which needed no particular smartness of speech or clothing to set them off. One of them, the one who waited on us, was a veritable Tess, large, placid, sensuous, unconsciously seductive. Many of the others seemed of a life they could not master but only gaze after. Where are the sensible males to see them, I thought. How is it that they escape while those others flaunt their dizzy gauds? But I soon consoled myself with the thought that they would not escape—for long. The strong male knows the real woman. Over and above ornament is the chemic attraction which laughs at ornament. I could see how the waitresses might fare better in love than the others.
But outside were the two youths and their maids waiting for us and we were intensely interested and as genial and companionable as might be. One of these girls was dark, svelte, languorous, rouged—a veritable siren of the modern moving picture school—or rather a copy of a siren. The other was younger, blonde, less made-up-ish, but so shallow. Dear, kind heaven, how shallow some people really are! And their clothes!
The conversation going on between them, for our benefit largely, was a thing to rejoice in or weep over, as you will. It was a hodge-podge of shallow humor and innuendo, the innuendo that conceals references to sex and brings smiles of understanding to the lips of the initiated.
“Lelah here is some girl, I’d have you know.” This from the taller of the two summer men, who was feeling of her arm familiarly.
“How do you know?” This from Lelah, with a quizzical, evasive smile.
“Don’t I?”
“Do you?”
“Well, you ought to know.”
“I notice that you have to ask.”