THE RUNAWAY ROAD
the gravel. "Oh, you funny Runaway Road," she trembled, "where do you go to?"
At the top stairs a tiny waft of earth turned her definitely into the first doorway.
She took one step across the threshold, and then stood stock-still and stared. It was a woman's room. And from floor to ceiling and from wall to wall flaunted an incongruous, moneyed effort to blot out all temperament and pang and trenchant life-history from one spot at least of the little old gray farmhouse. Bauble was there, and fashion and novelty, but the whole gay decoration looked and felt like the sumptuous dressing of a child whom one hated.
With a gasp of surprise the Girl went over and looked at herself in the mirror.
"Would n't I look queer in a room like this?" she whispered to herself. But she did n't look queer at all. She only felt queer, like a flatted note.
Then she hurried right down the stairs again, and went out in the yard, and caught the White Pony, and climbed up into her saddle.
The Youngish Man came running to say goodby.
"Well?" he said.
The Girl's eyes were steady as her hand. If her heart fluttered there was no sign of it.
150
