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She'd begin by learning to be a stenographer--a
cracking good stenographer. Miss Beach had begun that way. She had a
real job.
Only, Rose had first to get a job that would pay for her training; and
not only pay for it, but leave time for it; a problem which might have
seemed like the problem of lifting yourself by your boot straps, if it
hadn't been for Jimmy Wallace--Jimmy with his talk about chorus-girls.
The trouble with that profession, Jimmy had said, was that the
indispensable assets in it were not industry, intelligence, ambitions,
but a reasonably presentable pair of arms and legs (a good-looking face
would surely come in handy too) and a rudimentary sense of rhythm.
Another demoralizing thing about it, he had said, was the fact that the
work wasn't hard enough, except during rehearsal, to keep its votaries
out of mischief.
When the notion first occurred to her that these statements of Jimmy's
might some day have an interest for her that was personal rather than
academic, she had dismissed it with a shrug of good-humored amusement.


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