All her thoughts were upon this opportunity which insisted
upon looking to her like a menace. She tried to whip her self-
confidence, of which she was so proud, into a condition of constant
regnancy. But the plain fact was that Maggie, the misguided child of a
stolen birthright, whose soaring spirit was striving so hard to live
up to the traditions and conventions of cynicism, whose young ambition
it was to outshine and surpass all possible competitors in this world
in which she had been placed, who in her pride believed she knew so
much of life--the plain fact was that Maggie was in a state bordering
on funk.
This invitation from Miss Sherwood was an ordeal she had never counted
on. She had watched the fine ladies at the millinery shop and while
selling cigarettes at the Ritzmore, when she had been modeling her
manners, and had believed herself just as fine a lady as they. But
that had been in the abstract. Now she was face to face with a
situation that was painfully concrete--a real test: she had to place
herself into close contrast with, and under the close observation of,
a real lady, and in that lady's own home. And in all her life she had
not once been in a fine home! In fine hotels, yes--but fine hotels
were the common refuge of butcher, baker, floor-walker, thief, swell,
and each had approximately the same attention; and all she now felt
she had really learned were a few such matters as the use of table
silver and finger bowls.
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