regal as the deity of Saturday night, but she is far lovelier than the family skeleton of Monday or the best minds of Tuesday and Wednesday. At first she is only Molly, Later she becomes a power who upsets the best laid plans of calendar makers and brings the week’s climax over to Thursday instead of Saturday. Once you have met Molly, a week-end is merely two or three consecutive days and Thursday becomes a holiday.
“Molly is of medium height, slender, but only sensibly so, not brilliant, but cleverer than she knows. She has grayish blue eyes which seem to say nothing and everything. Her hair is dark brown, with a touch of red in it. Her voice is quiet and her laugh is not too loud—yet there is a song back of the voice and the laugh.
“At first you do not notice Molly particularly. She is always there Thursday night, if you feel like calling. She makes anise cakes and they are always on the table in a little porcelain dish. Molly may not know it, but the anise cakes are subtle. Not long after you have met Molly, you see anise cakes in a bakery—and your thoughts turn to Molly. You wonder whether there are others whose thoughts turn to Molly. If there are, she says little about them. You feel that you can propose to the Thursday Night Girl whenever you please— and so you delay it. It is only when she announces her engagement to some nonentity from out-of-town that you realize how long you have wanted Molly. And she passes into memory as a lost opportunity—unless you have learned the tradition of Thursday night and make the most of your opportunity.
“When the Saturday night girl marries, you count up the hours and dollars you have spent with that dear heart and think of the string of pearls you have cast before that shrine. But when Molly suddenly marries
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