"
He tossed several sacks of flour to one side of the stove, without
replying, and made of them the foundation of a bed; and with the
remaining sacks he duplicated the operation on the opposite side of the
stove.
"But you are some kind of an artist, then," he insisted when he had
finished, with an open contempt on the "artist."
"Unfortunately, I am not any kind of an artist at all."
He dropped the blanket he was folding and straightened his back.
Hitherto he had no more than glanced at her; but now he scrutinized her
carefully, every inch of her, from head to heel and back again, the cut
of her garments and the very way she did her hair. And he took his
time about it.
"Oh! I beg pardon," was his verdict, followed by another stare. "Then
you are a very foolish woman dreaming of fortune and shutting your eyes
to the dangers of the pilgrimage. It is only meet that two kinds of
women come into this country. Those who by virtue of wifehood and
daughterhood are respectable, and those who are not respectable.
Vaudeville stars and artists, they call themselves for the sake of
decency; and out of courtesy we countenance it. Yes, yes, I know. But
remember, the women who come over the trail must be one or the other.
There is no middle course, and those who attempt it are bound to fail.
So you are a very, very foolish girl, and you had better turn back
while there is yet a chance.
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