their frank stares. Pausing in the parlor door to answer a question, she overheard a bit of conversation:
“Doesn’t she look well with her hair low? Quite stunning, I think.”
“Yes, indeed. If only she wouldn’t dress so old! It makes her look older than she is. That red waist she wears in the evening is awfully becoming.”
“Yes, I hate her in dark things.”
The regret that she had not found time to put on the red waist was so instant and keen that she laughed at herself when alone in her room. She moved vaguely about, aimlessly changing the position of the furniture. How absurd! To do one’s hair differently, and take a long walk, and feel as if an old life were somehow far behind one!
Later she found herself before her desk, hunting for her foreign letter-paper, and once started, her pen flew. There were long meditative lapses, followed by nervous haste, as if to make up
