The gown had a village low-neck--that is, it was a trifle V'd at
the throat. Kedzie tried to copy the corsage of the women who passed
in the hall. She withdrew from the sleeves, and gathering the waist
together under her arms, fastened it as best she could. The revelation
was terrifying. All of her chest and shoulders and shoulderblades
were bare.

She dared hardly look at herself. Yet she could not possibly deny
the fearful charm of those contours. She put her clothes on again
and prinked as much as she could. Then she sallied forth, opening
and closing the door with pious care. She went to the elevator, and
the car began to drop. The elevator-boy politely lowered it without
plunge or jolt.

Kedzie followed the sound of the music. The lobbies were thronged
with brilliant crowds flocking from theaters for supper and a dance.
Kedzie made her way to the edge of the supper-room. The floor, like
a pool surrounded by chairs and tables, was alive with couples dancing
contentedly. Every woman was in evening dress and so was every man.
The splendor of the costumes made her blink. The shabbiness of her
own made her blush.

She blushed because her own dress was indecent and immoral. It was
indecent and immoral because it was unlike that of the majority.
In this parish, conventionality, which is the one true synonym for
morality, called for bare shoulders and arms unsleeved. Kedzie was
conspicuous, which is a perfect synonym for immoral. If she had
fallen through the ceiling out of a bathtub she could not have felt
more in need of a hiding-place. She shrank into a corner and sought
cover and concealment, for she was afraid to go back to the elevator