A Reversion To Type | Page 5

rolled back a little too severely for the
prevailing mode, and she recalled her late visitor's effectively adjusted
side-combs, her soft, dark waves.

"They have time for it, evidently," she mused, "and after all it is
certainly more important than modal auxiliaries!"
And for half an hour she twisted and looped and coiled, between the
chiffonnier and a hand-glass, fairly flushing with pleasure at the result.
"Now," she said, looking cheerfully at a pile of written papers, "I'll take
a walk, I think--a real walk." And till dinner-time she tramped some of
the old roads of her college days--more girlish than those days had
found her, lighter-footed, she thought, than before.
The flush was still in her cheeks as she served her hungry tableful, and
she could not fail to catch the meaning of 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 the lost time; and
just before the ten-o'clock bell she slipped out to mail a fat
brown-stamped envelope. The night-watchman chuckled as he watched
the head shrouded in the golf-cape hood bend a moment over the little
white square.

"Maybe it's one o' the maids, maybe it's one o' the teachers, maybe it's
one o' the girls," he confided to his lantern; "they're all alike, come to
that! An' a good thing, too!"
In the morning the German assistant dismissed her last class early and
took train for Springfield. On the way to the station a deferential clerk
from the bookshop waylaid her.
"One moment, please. Those books you spoke of. Mr. Hartwell's
library is up at auction and we're sending a man to buy to-day. If you
could get the whole set for twenty-five dollars--"
She smiled and shook her head. "I've changed my mind, thank you--I
can't afford it. Yes, I suppose it is a bargain, but books are such a
trouble to carry about, you know. No, I don't think of anything else."
What freedom, what a strange baseless exhilaration! Suppose--suppose
it was all a mistake, and she should wake back to the old stubborn,
perfunctory reality! Perhaps it was better, saner--that quiet
taken-for-granted existence. Perhaps she regretted--but even with the
half-fear at her heart she laughed at that. If wake she must, she loved
the dream. How she trusted that man! "Always I will wait"--and he
would. But seven years! She threw the thought behind her.
The next days passed in a swift, confused flight. She knew they were
all discussing her, wondering at her changed face, her fresh, becoming
clothes; they decided that she had had money left her.
"Some of my girls saw you shopping in Springfield last Saturday--they
say you got some lovely waists," said her fellow-assistant tentatively.
"Was this one? It's very sweet. You ought to wear red a great deal, you
look so well in it. Did you know Professor Riggs spoke of your hat
with wild enthusiasm to Mrs. Austin Sunday? He said it was wonderful
what a difference a stylish hat made. Not that he meant, of
course--Well, it's lovely to be able to get what you want. Goodness
knows, I wish I could."
The other laughed. "Oh, it's perfectly easy if you really want to," she

said, "it all depends on what you want, you know."
For the first week she moved in a kind of exaltation. It was partly that
her glass showed her a different woman: soft-eyed, with cheeks tinted
from the long, restless walks through the spring that was coming on
with every warm, greening day. The excitement of the letter hung over
her. She pictured her announcement, Fräulein Müller's amazed
questions.
"'But--but I do not understand! You are not well?'
"'Perfectly, thank you.'
"'But I am perfectly satisfied: I do not wish to change. You are not sick,
then?'
"'Only of teaching, Fräulein.'
"'But the instructorship--I was going to recommend--do not be alarmed;
you shall have it surely!'
"'You are very kind,