"No."
"Well, for a man who looks negligee even in evening clothes
aren't you overcritical?"
"I'm not criticizing your clothes. Even I can see that that
hat and suit have the repressed note that means money. And
you're the kind of woman who looks her best in those plain
dark things."
"Well, then?"
"You look like a buyer. In two more years your face will
have that hard finish that never comes off."
"I am a buyer."
"You're not. You're a creator. Remember, I'm not
belittling your job. It's a wonderful job--for Ella
Monahan. I wish I had the gift of eloquence. I wish I had
the right to spank you. I wish I could prove to you,
somehow, that with your gift, and heritage, and racial right
it's as criminal for you to be earning your thousands at
Haynes-Cooper's as it would have been for a vestal virgin to
desert her altar fire to stoke a furnace. Your eyes are
bright and hard, instead of tolerant. Your mouth is losing
its graciousness. Your whole face is beginning to be
stamped with a look that says shrewdness and experience, and
success.
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