No wonder their faces tingled with
excitement and their eyes sparkled with delight.
Connie was surprised that the girls were pretty, really pretty, with
pink and white skin and polished finger nails, those girls in the silk
blouses and khaki shirts, those girls with the wide sombrero and the
iron muscles, who rode the bucking horses, and raced around the track,
and did a thousand other appalling things that pink-skinned,
shiny-nailed girls were not wont to do back home. They stayed at the
Bijou, a whole crowd of them, and Connie never let them out of her
sight until they closed their bedroom doors for the night. They talked
in brief broken sentences, rather curtly, but their voices were quiet
and low, and they weren't half as slangy as cowgirls, by every literary
precedent, ought to be. They were not like Connie, of course, tall and
slim, with the fine exalted face, with soft pink palms and soft round
arms. And their striking saddle costumes were not half as curious to
Fort Morgan as Connie's lacy waists, and her tailored skirts, and her
frilly little silk gowns. But they were more curious to Connie.
She tried to picture herself in a sombrero like that, with gauntlets on
her hands, and with a fringed leather skirt that reached to her knees,
and with a scarlet silk blouse and a yellow silk belt,--and even her
distinctly literary imagination could not compass such a miracle.
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