"
"Well, of course he's no slugger," retorted Jane, whose thought turned
suddenly towards the youthful footballist at Yale. "Yes," she went on,
"he's got plenty of assurance and readiness, and he'll do beautifully--if
he'll just be disposed to take the trouble. Only--only he doesn't know
anybody, hardly," was her dubious conclusion.
"Never mind," returned Mrs. Bates, genially; "lots of 'em he couldn't
know--there's too many; and lots of 'em he wouldn't want to know. He can
jump about, I imagine, and see that other people are kept jumping about
too. The fewer he knows the better he'll do his work."
She looked at Jane steadily for a moment or two. "One thing more; I want
you to come and sit in my box."
"Me!" squealed Jane. "Oh-h-h!" It was a complicated cry; it indicated
surprise, gratitude, self-depreciation, and (before all) a sense of
divided duty.
Mrs. Bates, all unsuspected by her subject, had taken Jane in hand a
month ago, and had made her at length fairly presentable. Incidentally
she had made herself a martyr. "But never mind," she would say; "the poor
child doesn't know how to do herself justice, so somebody else has got to
do it for her."
After a pretty thorough canvass of Jane--her hands, her hair, her dress,
her carriage, her complexion--she began operations. She went, for
example, to a widely celebrated beautifier, as well as to other dealers
in those lotions and cosmetics which have secured the recommendation of
various singers and professional beauties, and she took Jane with her.
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