Vashti, sunk in the depths of a cool chartreuse chair, fanned her flushed face with an availing handkerchief. Her inward eye on her own expanse of beige silk, her outward eye on Leslie’s slim grey-blue shantung, she voiced the self-doubt that tormented her.
“Look, Les, does this look too fussy? Traveling, I mean. Light beige?”
“Well—beige is—is good in Texas. The dust.” The soft dark eyes kind, friendly.
“I don’t know,” Vashti panted unhappily. She narrowed her baby-blue eyes to contemplate the entire effect of Leslie’s costume. “Now, take you, piece by piece—shoes and stockings and dress and everything, why you’re just right, every single thing. But to look at you quick you don’t look like anything.”
At the startled glance and then the quick flashing smile of the other woman Vashti’s customary high color took on the scarlet of embarrassment. “Oh, Leslie, I didn’t mean it mean! I just meant no matter what you’ve got on it doesn’t hit you in the eye first thing, but take you apart, why, everything is perfect. Just perfect.”
On her way to greet Mott Snyth Leslie Benedict’s hand rested a moment on the shoulder of her guest’s moist and crumpled bulk. “Dear Vashti, that’s the nicest thing any woman ever said to another woman.”
Ferber, Edna. Giant. New York: Doubleday, 1952. 19–20. Print.