Free Francie Comes Home by Emily Hahn Page B

a lot to learn at the beginning—bookkeeping and stock-taking and so on. And all these things to remember the prices of.” Francie looked around at the shop’s contents.
    â€œYes,” said Mrs. Clark. She sighed and picked up her parcel and started for the door. “All these things,” she repeated. “Such hideous things, too! Well, good-by.”
    She closed the door after her, leaving Francie very much ashamed of her early, lofty opinion. The sober, ordinary appearance of that woman had misled her badly. Here was a kindred soul, and she had never suspected.
    The day was to bring another surprise. That afternoon Chadbourne Fredericks, wearing her work smock and sandals, came charging in on what Francie privately called one of her lightning raids. At first she seemed as taciturn and disagreeable as ever. Without more than a grunt of greeting she swooped on a colored mat that Francie had marked down mentally for the new window display she was planning, to prove to Florence Ryan that simplicity had “draw” for the public.
    Francie hated to see the mat snatched away, but she knew her employer’s policy: Fredericks & Worpels came first. She bit back all protest. She did even better and made a suggestion, giving away a prized idea. “That candlestick’s color looks pretty good with the mat, don’t you think? You might like to take it, too.”
    Chadbourne pushed back her hair and regarded the candlestick, her head tilted sideways to show critical consideration. “Not bad,” she admitted. “Mummy’s probably got something else in mind, but maybe I’d better take it along and see. Shall I?”
    Her voice was amiable, and Francie hastened to fall in with the new tone. Certainly they could try out the candlestick; the Birthday Box would be delighted, she said. So Chadbourne picked it up. Francie expected her to make her usual self-important rush for the door; instead, she hesitated.
    â€œIt’s rather fun fooling around with this sort of thing, don’t you think?” she said.
    Francie agreed. Chadbourne went on, “Didn’t I hear that you’ve done something along these lines before? In Spain, or somewhere?”
    With mounting wonder, Francie said, “Oh, I did a little textile designing, but you couldn’t call me a professional.”
    â€œInteresting,” said Chadbourne vaguely. There seemed to be something else on her mind. Both girls stood silent for a moment, and then she went on in a little rush. “Don’t you find it, I mean, sort of quiet here in Jefferson? Did you ever think of trying to get something worth while started around here?” She paused again, and for a moment a vivid flush showed on her sallow skin. “The thing is, I’ve been talking it over with a friend of mine,” she said, “and he says—he’s of the opinion—that the town needs waking up. He thought I might get something started like a dramatic society or stuff. You know, put on plays of our own. And since I don’t seem to know many people particularly clever at that sort of thing … I mean, I don’t know you very well, for that matter, but I’ve heard you’re awfully clever, and they tell me you’ve been abroad and all that. So have I, but I didn’t pick up much of what he’s talking about, I guess. Anyway, we did put on plays at my boarding school. Did you at yours?”
    She was obviously very shy: Francie was surprised to realize it. While delivering this long speech Chadbourne had stood on one foot and rubbed the toes of the other against the calf of her leg, like a child reciting a piece. Francie wondered at this complete change of front, and wasn’t quite ready to trust it. She replied quietly, “We used to do the usual plays, I suppose, but of course it was years ago. And I was more interested in scene-painting than acting.”
    â€œWell, but it is a good idea,