In the wake of these triumphant young ladies came Miss Bee with just funds enough to pay her own bills, but no particular store of either wealth or beauty.
She was a sensible girl, had a sensible little face, with pleasant eyes and a merry mouth, but had not knowledge to make the most of herself in the way some others did; nor, it may be, the inclination. No poppy leaves stained her cheeks, no powder whitened her forehead, no foreign coils of hair swelled out the moderate portion which was of home growth. And no extra-high heels put her further up in the world than she was by nature. Her shoes were "common sense"; her gloves were large enough to button all the way; her parasol was brown, and she had a trick of saying nothing she did not mean.
No girl who behaves herself will ever be slighted at West Point; cadets are too courteous and too chivalrous as well. But in view of all I have told of Miss Bee, you will easily guess that her place in the public interest was small. Everyone was polite to her, but no one missed her, or looked for her, or wondered where she was. Cadets never scowled at each other for her sake; and pretty girls never cared what she had on. Yet perhaps among them all there was not one who tasted every crumb of pleasure with such keen relish as Miss Bee. She had had so little of it in her life, poor child! This was her first real outing. No wonder West Point was fairyland, and every cadet a born prince in disguise.
At first, indeed, she was terribly afraid of them; conscious, perhaps, of her own lack of "fetching" qualities, but by degrees that changed a little. The innocent colour started to her cheeks as readily as ever, when some grey uniform came up with:
"Good-evening, Miss Bee. How did you enjoy the Light Battery this morning?"
But when none of them came, when they were all swept away in the gay whirl of beauty and fashion, and she sat solitary with Mrs. Granton, this was not quite so easy to bear, Mabel found, as at first. And many a brave struggle for victory went on under the old trees before parade, and Saturday afternoons at the Hotel, and in her own room. Nobody guessed it, and she never told.
It was no great wonder if, to this rather dull young life, thus suddenly set down at the edge of the bright whirl, the hero of all romance, past, present, and future, should array himself in bell buttons and grey dress coat. It was also quite natural that this hazy individual should develop into the face and figure of Cadet Charlemagne Kindred, with no fault on his part, and no special folly on hers. In truth, it was some time before the child picked up a dictionary of herself, with definitions.