She was fastidious. The clerk could not make her out; he could not
reconcile her shoes with her stockings, and she was not too easily
pleased. She held back her skirts and turned her feet one way and her
head another way as she glanced down at the polished, pointed-tipped
boots. Her foot and ankle looked very pretty. She could not realize that
they belonged to her and were a part of herself. She wanted an excellent
and stylish fit, she told the young fellow who served her, and she did
not mind the difference of a dollar or two more in the price so long as
she got what she desired.
It was a long time since Mrs. Sommers had been fitted with gloves. On
rare occasions when she had bought a pair they were always "bargains,"
so cheap that it would have been preposterous and unreasonable to have
expected them to be fitted to the hand.
Now she rested her elbow on the cushion of the glove counter, and a
pretty, pleasant young creature, delicate and deft of touch, drew a
long-wristed "kid" over Mrs. Sommers's hand. She smoothed it down over
the wrist and buttoned it neatly, and both lost themselves for a second
or two in admiring contemplation of the little symmetrical gloved hand.
But there were other places where money might be spent.
There were books and magazines piled up in the window of a stall a few
paces down the street. Mrs. Sommers bought two high-priced magazines
such as she had been accustomed to read in the days when she had been
accustomed to other pleasant things. She carried them without wrapping.
As well as she could she lifted her skirts at the crossings. Her
stockings and boots and well-fitting gloves had worked marvels in her
bearing--had given her a feeling of assurance, a sense of belonging to
the well-dressed multitude.
She was very hungry. Another time she would have stilled the cravings
for food until reaching her own home, where she would have brewed
herself a cup of tea and taken a snack of anything that was available.
But the impulse that was guiding her would not suffer her to entertain
any such thought.
There was a restaurant at the corner. She had never entered its doors;
from the outside she had sometimes caught glimpses of spotless damask
and shining crystal, and soft-stepping waiters serving people of
fashion.
When she entered her appearance created no surprise, no consternation,
as she had half feared it might. She seated herself at a small table
alone, and an attentive waiter at once approached to take her order. She
did not want a profusion; she craved a nice and tasty bite--a half
dozen blue-points, a plump chop with cress, a something sweet--a
creme-frappee, for instance; a glass of Rhine wine, and after all a
small cup of black coffee.