99k
 
 V
 
 Prologue 
 
 BY 
 
 PHYLLIS DUGANNE 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 HARCOURT, BRACE AND HOWE 
 1920
 
 COPYRIGHT, IQ2O. BY 
 HARCOURT, BRACK AND HOWE, INC. 
 
 THE QUINN at BODEN COMPANY 
 RAHWAY. N. J
 
 TO 
 
 MY MOTHER 
 
 2129095
 
 PROLOGUE
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 Part One 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 THE curtain fell slowly at the close of the first act of 
 Peter Pan. Rita squirmed in her seat, and turned to smile 
 at her mother. 
 
 " Oh, muv! " 
 
 " It's charming, isn't it, dear? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 She looked about at the audience. There were many 
 children no older than herself, chattering, wriggling about, 
 waving their hands. But her heart was too full, too happy, 
 for her to talk. She was wondering whether, if she truly 
 believed, she, too, could fly. She did believe. If she was 
 Wendie, she would fly straight out the window to Larch- 
 borough. There was a lake there and the big gray cat 
 often had kittens. 
 
 The usher came up the aisle with a tray of glasses. 
 " Water? " 
 
 " Do you want some water, dear? " Lilias Moreland 
 asked. 
 
 Rita shook her head. Perhaps if you believed very hard 
 . . . The usher went to the next row, and Rita gasped. 
 
 3
 
 4 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Muv! " 
 
 " Yes, dear? " 
 
 Rita hesitated. " Nothing I guess." Her mother would 
 not understand. But Rita knew. It was the first time in 
 her life that she had not taken the glass of water the usher 
 offered. She was growing up! 
 
 Rita Moreland was eleven years old. 
 
 The theater darkened, and again the curtain hung trem- 
 bling over a row of lights that was like a string of beads. 
 Rita leaned forward in her seat. 
 
 The curtain had fallen at the close of the last act of 
 Peter Pan. Rita sat silently, looking about at the audience. 
 Everyone was standing up, except one little girl in the 
 next row who was crying. " The curtain fell down before 
 and came up again, " she was sobbing. " I don't believe 
 that it's all over. I'm going to sit here and wait. " " But 
 don't you see all the other people going away? " her mother 
 asked. The little girl looked about tearfully. " Maybe 
 they have to catch trains, " she said, and began crying again. 
 Rita smiled sympathetically. Mothers and nurses were 
 buttoning coats on wide-eyed children, putting on hats, 
 untangling the long mitten tapes that always get caught 
 in your coat sleeves. 
 
 " Rita! How many times must I speak to you? " Her 
 own mother was holding out her coat. " Rita, do look 
 where you're putting your arms! " She stood docilely, 
 while Lilias buttoned it, snapped the elastic of her brown 
 hat beneath her chin. 
 
 " Did the crocodile really have the alarm-clock in his 
 stomach, Mother? "
 
 PROLOGUE 5 
 
 " What do you think? " 
 
 " Aren't you glad, Mother, that the pirates had to walk 
 the plank? Wasn't Peter brave? " 
 
 " Yes, dear. Now come. Rita ! " 
 
 Out again into the street. It was strange to find the sun 
 still shining, and the electric lights just snapping on here 
 and there. It was still the same day. Rita wondered 
 whether all the people who were crowding along the side- 
 walk had seen Peter Pan. She wanted to stop and tell 
 them that they should, but it would take a long time, and 
 probably her mother would not like it. 
 
 " Rita, don't dawdle so. I've got to get home and into 
 an evening dress. Rita! " 
 
 " All right, Mother." 
 
 She looked ahead of her, and tried to walk quickly. If 
 she thought too much about Peter Pan, she would forget 
 to walk. 
 
 " Mother ! " Lilias Moreland was several steps ahead 
 and some strange people had separated them. Rita ran up 
 and caught her hand; she was panting with excitement be- 
 cause she had almost been lost. " Mother, will they do it 
 all over again tonight? " 
 
 " Of course, Rita. Don't be absurd." 
 
 "No, Mother." Rita did not want to be absurd; she 
 wanted to find out how often they played Peter Pan. Per- 
 haps her mother would take her again. She decided not 
 to ask her until the next day; she was in a hurry now, and 
 would be sure to say no. 
 
 Finally they reached the house. Rita could not remem- 
 ber having passed the corner where the funny stone lions
 
 6 PROLOGUE 
 
 were. She liked to stop and pat them. They must have 
 come that way. Her mother was reaching in her bag for 
 the key; she unlocked the door. 
 
 " Mother" 
 
 "Oh, run up to your room, Rita, and get washed for 
 supper. I must hurry." 
 
 In the living-room she saw her father. She rushed in 
 and climbed up on his lap. " Oh, Father, we've been to see 
 Peter Pan, and" 
 
 She heard her mother laughing in the hallway. 
 
 II 
 
 Rita was lying in bed in her room, with her toys scattered 
 on the white spread. She looked at them listlessly; she 
 loved them all, the great dirty teddy-bear, old Dinah, the 
 baby doll whose wig had come off, the little dolls. There 
 was a fairy-book on the table beside the bed, and two 
 bottles, a glass and a spoon. That was because she was 
 sick; the doctor came every day to feel her wrist and look 
 at her tongue. He asked her mother questions that Rita 
 did not understand, and was very cross with everyone 
 except herself. 
 
 She was too tired to read, or to play with any of the 
 dolls. It was strange that she should be tired when she 
 had not done anything but lie quietly for three weeks. 
 
 Her mother and father were standing in the hall out- 
 side the door, talking. 
 
 " I don't see any reason why you should act as though it 
 were all my fault," her mother said.
 
 PROLOGUE 7 
 
 Webster Moreland laughed. " I don't see any reason 
 why I should act as though it were not, my dear," he said. 
 
 Rita pressed her hot cheek against the pillow and listened. 
 When her father said " my dear ", it meant that he was 
 angry. He was angry when he laughed, unless it was at 
 Rita. They were talking about her, because the doctor 
 had said she did not have proper food or exercise or sleep, 
 and that it was a crime to bring her up in the city. Her 
 mother had cried, and Rita had scowled at the doctor. 
 
 " Of course we'll go to Larchborough right away, " her 
 father said. 
 
 Rita's eyes brightened. Larchborough! That would be 
 great fun. In Larchborough, she could play out-of-doors, 
 and watch the tan creep up over her white arms, and spread 
 over the freckles that came first, on her face. 
 
 " Oh, Larchborough Larchborough! " her mother said 
 impatiently. " You and your old Larchborough! I wish " 
 
 u You can have any of your friends with you, that 
 you want, you know, " her father said. " You know that I 
 don't give a damn what you do, or what people say about 
 us." 
 
 He went downstairs, thumping angrily on the carpet, and 
 Rita wondered why people should say things if her mother's 
 friends came to visit them. Her mother came into the 
 room and sat on the edge of the bed, but Rita did not ask 
 her. It was probably another secret. 
 
 " Should you like to go to Larchborough? " asked Lilias. 
 
 "Oh, Mother! " 
 
 " We'll go as soon as we can get ready." 
 
 Her mother went downstairs, and Rita lay smiling until
 
 8 PROLOGUE 
 
 she fell asleep from happiness, and thinking of the many 
 things she would do. 
 
 They were ready in two weeks, and the New York house 
 was closed. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Indirect lighting was still a novelty, and Lilias Moreland 
 smiled as she looked at her living-room. The maid had 
 brought coffee, and the guests were seated about the fire- 
 place. The nest of black and silver lacquered tables 
 also new to America in 1910 was causing admiration. The 
 guests were too polite to verbally admire the slender coffee 
 pot of beaten silver, the delicate cups and saucers. After 
 a certain point, admiration becomes uncomplimentary. 
 
 She stood swaying in the doorway, contented with her 
 room. Her house was the only thing that made Larch- 
 borough bearable for her; she hated the country, and her 
 husband's home. The living-room was nicely proportioned, 
 paneled in white, hung with good paintings. She had built 
 it about herself; there was not a piece of furniture or color 
 that was out of the picture. 
 
 Across the room she saw Ernest Harvey's eyes seeking 
 hers. Her husband was talking to Malcolm Heath; Mrs. 
 Heath and Arthur Davis were talking together. Ernest was 
 sitting alone, a little apart, on the wine-colored couch, obvi- 
 ously waiting for her to join him. She smiled in his direc- 
 tion, her eyes avoiding his, and walked over to the fireplace. 
 For a moment she kept the men standing while she adjusted 
 her flame-colored scarf. Then she chose a chair slightly 
 in shadow, and sat down, showing slender ankles and legs
 
 PROLOGUE 9 
 
 in gold silk stockings, small feet in French-heeled slippers. 
 
 Arthur Davis turned from Mrs. Heath to speak to her, 
 and she nodded, smiling. She was looking at her daughter, 
 standing beside Webster Moreland. Lilias frowned. She 
 did not like to see them together; they were too much alike. 
 There was the same wavy red hair, the cool green eyes, 
 over-thick, over-black brows and lashes. As she watched, 
 Rita kissed his cheek, and ran over to the couch, climbed 
 into Ernest Harvey's lap. When she laughed, she was less 
 like her father. She pulled the flower from Harvey's button- 
 hole, and smelled it. Lilias had given it to him. Harvey 
 laughed suddenly. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 Rita looked up quickly, one hand still patting Ernest 
 Harvey's cheek. " Yes, Mother? " 
 
 " Come here." 
 
 She threaded her way among the chairs, a tall, graceful 
 child. Lilias put her arm about her, and bent her head so 
 that their cheeks touched. She was smiling as she brushed 
 Rita's hair from her forehead, but her voice had a note that 
 was there when she scolded. 
 
 " Rita, I don't want you to sit in men's laps any more. 
 You are too old. Do you understand? " 
 
 Rita nodded. She did not understand, but she felt vaguely 
 that here was another of the things one accepts unques- 
 tioning. She turned, and shook her head at Ernest Harvey 
 who was holding out his arms. Then suddenly she felt tears 
 rising to her eyes; she pulled away from her mother and 
 ran up to her bedroom. 
 
 She liked her room. One wall was lined with shelves for
 
 io PROLOGUE 
 
 her books, and two of the others were broken by window- 
 seats and casement windows. They creaked at night, if it 
 was windy, and Rita pretended she was on a ship. It was 
 exciting when a sudden storm blew up from the lake, and 
 she fumbled with the hooks and closed the windows while 
 the rain beat on her face and dress, and the lightning made 
 her arms gleam. Beneath the lowest shelf her dolls sat 
 stiffly on a row of chairs, as though they were waiting. Rita 
 took up the sailor doll that her father had brought from 
 New York, and rocked him in her arms. His name was 
 Jack. She held him out at arm's length, and looked affec- 
 tionately at his curly hair, his round pink cheeks. 
 
 For the first time, strangely, she realized that he was a 
 bgy-doll. 
 
 IV 
 
 The clock had struck eight, and as Rita heard the last 
 stroke, she sighed deeply. She looked down at her white 
 dress approvingly. It was her twelfth birthday, and she 
 was having a party. She did not have to go upstairs with 
 Annie. 
 
 The line between her heavy eyebrows deepened, as she 
 stood alone at the window. It was a satisfactory party; 
 she was glad that her birthday came in July when Larch- 
 borough was rainbowed with flowers. Her mother had come 
 to the center of the room and held out a deep basket. 
 There were daisies and buttercups and clover, roses, 
 zinnia, nasturtiums flowers that Annie had picked in 
 the gardens, and flowers that Rita herself had gathered 
 in the fields. There were two of each, and the children
 
 PROLOGUE ii 
 
 hurried about, matching them, finding their partners for 
 the Portland Fancy. It had been a pretty dance, and now 
 the victrola had started again, and the children were two- 
 stepping. Their white dresses and bright ribbons were 
 pretty in the candle-lit room against the white paneling of 
 the walls. 
 
 But Rita scowled as she watched them. Nowhere among 
 the laughing little girls and boys could she find Bobby. And 
 Bobby was her beau. Her mother had said so. She was 
 not sure that she wanted a beau; she had never had one, 
 and she was not sure of the duties. But her mother had 
 told her so, and she felt a heavy sense of responsibility 
 towards Bobby. 
 
 She pushed open the screen door and stepped out on the 
 piazza. The smooth lawn, shining in the moonlight, rolled 
 down from the house and slipped away into the dark tangle 
 of pine trees at the edge of the lake. The path, with its 
 floor of shiny needles, wound through the grove to the boat- 
 house where the pump was coughing and sighing. Across 
 the lake, the Weldon's float was lighted; a red canoe 
 slid across the moon-path in the opening of trees on the 
 shore. 
 
 But Bobby . . . She peered into the shadows of the 
 piazza. Then she laughed, and pattered to the farthest 
 corner where he was sitting. His head was bowed on his 
 knees. As she reached him, he raised his head, and she 
 saw that he was crying. 
 
 " Go away! " he said. 
 
 Rita hesitated; then, regardless of her ruffles, she sank to 
 the floor beside him. " What's the matter, Bobby? "
 
 12 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Go away! " 
 
 Rita considered. She settled herself more comfortably 
 and waited. 
 
 " She said she'd dance the Virginia Reel with me," said 
 Bobby. 
 
 Rita was silent. 
 
 " An' she sent me off to get her ice-cream an' when I got 
 back she was eating ice-cream he brought her." 
 
 " I'm sorry," Rita said. 
 
 " An' this dance was mine. She's dancing with him." 
 
 In the house, music was streaming from the victrola; 
 little boys and girls, awkwardly holding each other, were 
 dancing, their backs held stiff, their knees unbending. Rita 
 could see her mother talking with another mother. She was 
 not so pretty when she talked with a woman; her mouth 
 did not pull up and down at the corners, turn from a smile 
 into the delightful roundness that Rita always wanted to 
 kiss. 
 
 " Will you dance with me? " asked Rita. 
 
 " Don't want to." 
 
 Rita looked out over the lake and wondered at life. It 
 was strange the way your own feelings were tangled with 
 other people's. She wanted to dance. And there were 
 many better dancers than Bobby. But Bobby was her 
 beau, and she had her duty towards him. She had never 
 wondered so before. There were so many little unhappi- 
 nesses that could find their way even to her birthday party. 
 Even then, when for the first time in her twelve years she 
 was really suffering, she wondered at the fallacy of being 
 unhappy. It irritated her that she could not be so sad as
 
 PROLOGUE 13 
 
 she wished, that something within her knew how slight her 
 suffering really was. 
 
 They were so engrossed in their own thoughts that they 
 did not hear the creak of the screen door when Lilias More- 
 land came out. For a moment she stood looking out over 
 the lake, her melancholy eyes softened in the moonlight, her 
 hips swaying slightly with the music. Her lavender dress 
 billowed about her ankles, and some of the petals from the 
 spray of hydrangea blossom she had dared to thrust in 
 her dark hair beside the Spanish comb shivered to the 
 piazza floor. As she saw her daughter and Bobby, she 
 laughed. 
 
 "Naughty, naughty, Rita! " she said in the warm voice 
 that always thrilled her daughter. " Remember you're the 
 hostess and you mustn't spoon when you should be enter- 
 taining. You are a flirt, in spite of your New England 
 father." 
 
 For a moment Rita was so filled with pleasure at her 
 mother's voice that she was not angry. Lilias lingered over 
 her words, as though she found beauty in every syllable; 
 she gave the impression of drawling, although she talked 
 rather quickly. Rita looked at her, and suddenly her face 
 grew dark. 
 
 "I'm not flirting, Mother," she said. "I'm" She 
 looked at Bobby, and realized that he would not want her 
 mother to know. " I'm just talking to Bobby." 
 
 Her mother's laughter seemed to ripple the lake, as it 
 floated off the piazza. Rita almost expected to hear it 
 caught in the dark trees on the farther dusky side, and blown 
 back.
 
 I 4 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Oh, little Rita! "she said. " If you must stay out here, 
 at least put on a scarf. It's growing cool." 
 
 "Let's dance," Bobby whispered, wiping his eyes with 
 the back of his hand. 
 
 Rita felt suddenly contrary. " I don't know that I want 
 to, now," she said, laughing at him. Then she saw his 
 bewildered expression, and she wondered why she had lied. 
 " 'Course I do," she contradicted herself, and took his hot 
 hand in hers. 
 
 They walked into the living-room, and he placed his 
 arm about her waist uncertainly. As they started, his 
 frantic hold on her dress loosened; she was dancing with 
 him, and light though she was, he had no fear that she would 
 float away. Bobby compressed his lips, and thought about 
 his feet. 
 
 " Not quite so fast," Rita whispered. " Listen, now." Her 
 hand on his arm punctuated the beat of the music gently; 
 for a few steps she led him, but so lightly that Bobby did 
 not realize it. His boy dignity would have been outraged, 
 had he suspected. He merely knew that by some luck he was 
 not stepping on his partner's feet, and that dancing with 
 Rita was not quite so objectionable as dancing usually was. 
 He felt the relief that came in dancing school, when he was 
 Miss Faith's partner. 
 
 More than one pair of eyes watched the two children as 
 they curved about the room. Ernest Harvey smiled and 
 waved, as they passed him, and Rita waved ,back. Her 
 mouth was curved into an ecstatic smile, strangely mature, 
 and absurd before the tight, determined expression of 
 Bobby's lips. Lilias Moreland, at Harvey's side, watched
 
 PROLOGUE 15 
 
 them with mingled feeling. She was glad that Rita was 
 graceful, that she danced and walked and carried herself 
 well. If Rita had not been her daughter, she would have 
 felt merely jealousy. As it was, her jealousy was mingled 
 with pride, and her pride with resentment that her twelve 
 year old daughter should be so mature, so sure of herself. 
 She did not like to be reminded that she was a mother. 
 
 Rita danced on, unconscious that people were watching 
 her. She had danced ever since she had walked, and there 
 was nothing she loved so much. An itinerant Jew, carry- 
 ing bag-pipes, always plunged her, wherever she was, into 
 a breathless Highland Fling; a hurdy-gurdy set her feet in 
 motion as though she were a dancing doll. She did not like 
 church, because the solemn music pouring from the organ 
 made her body sway, made her long for open fields. 
 
 A few weeks before, there had been a grown-up dance in 
 the Larchborough house. Lilias had allowed Rita to sit up 
 to " fill in " at dinner. She had worn an old dancing frock 
 of her mother's, shortened and tucked, but longer than her 
 usual dresses. It was low over her brown neck, and flat, 
 childish breasts. Her mother, laughing, had tucked a 
 crumpled handkerchief hi the bodice " so that you'll have 
 a little curve," she had said and Rita, flushing, shamed, 
 had jerked it out and stamped upon it. But she had 
 watched, fascinated while Lilias piled her red hair above her 
 childish forehead. She was tall for her twelve years in 
 the last year she had shot up like a weed and big; she had 
 looked, half frightened, at her reflection in her mother's 
 pier-glass. 
 
 At dinner she mimicked her mother. Her green eyes
 
 16 PROLOGUE 
 
 opened wide as she turned to speak to the man beside her; 
 the lashes fell slowly while she listened to his answer. She 
 was suddenly conscious that her mother was half jealous, 
 and the realization waked the feminine in her, spurred her 
 to be more charming. She had tasted the wine of the man 
 next to her, and smiled prettily when he turned the glass to 
 drink from the spot her lips had touched. 
 
 When the dancing began and more people arrived, she 
 was never without a partner. She smilingly permitted her- 
 self to be torn from one pair of masculine arms and caught 
 in another, because there were more partners than dances. 
 Her sophistication at the dinner table had been a well 
 executed mimicry of her mother; her dancing was her own, 
 and her joy in it came partly from her childishness. 
 
 The decanters on the tea-wagon had been twice emptied, 
 and Rita alone saw the long, dimly lighted room as it really 
 was. She did not know that; the unusual gaiety of the 
 grown people seemed to her the normal air at a party. At 
 the end of a long waltz, her partner, a man well over forty, 
 swayed, and leaned towards her, as his arm about her tight- 
 ened. Rita looked up at his face, waiting for him to release 
 her, wondering at the tight expression of his mouth. He 
 swayed again, and as Rita wondered why he did not let her 
 go, her mother tore her suddenly from his arms, stood be- 
 tween them. 
 
 Then she was sent upstairs to her room. It was another 
 of the inexplicable whims of grown people. In her room she 
 realized that she was sleepy, and took up her teddy-bear, 
 fell asleep with his furry paw resting on her cheek. She was 
 awakened abruptly when her mother came into the room.
 
 PROLOGUE 17 
 
 For a long time she sat on the edge of the bed, still in her 
 evening gown, pressing her hot cheek against Rita's fore- 
 head. Rita had smiled at her sleepily; her cheeks were 
 almost as brilliant as her scarlet dress; the red flower had 
 fallen from her untidy hair and was caught in the net scarf 
 about her shoulders. The red had blurred on her lips, and 
 her breath was hot and smelled of wine. And her father 
 had come to the door, an angular, ungainly figure in the 
 ugly nightshirt his wife so detested, and had looked at them, 
 smiling. Rita remembered his words. " After all, Lilias," 
 he had said, " you may not care, but I'm damned if I'll be a 
 father-in-law to any of your lovers." Her mother had 
 shuddered, and leaned farther over the bed, holding her so 
 that it hurt. 
 
 The music stopped, and Bobby's arms fell limply to his 
 sides. 
 
 " That was nice," said Rita. She hesitated. " I'm going 
 over to see Helen. Is your next dance engaged? " 
 
 " Don't go. I don't want to dance with her now." 
 
 " I'm going." She wondered why she went, as she hur- 
 ried across the floor to where the little girl sat. Helen was 
 fanning herself awkwardly, and Rita felt much older than 
 she, as she sat down beside her. 
 
 " Bobby's unhappy," she said. " He wants you to dance 
 with him." 
 
 " All right," said Helen. " I don't care." 
 
 " Then you'll save him the next dance? " 
 
 " I'd just as soon." 
 
 Rita hurried back to Bobby, and her heart was both heavy
 
 i8 PROLOGUE 
 
 and light. " She wants to dance with you," she said. Then 
 she went out on the piazza. 
 
 The door opened and her father came out. He was a 
 tall thin man, with a brownish face, lined and irregular. He 
 was an architect, and had a great flat desk in his workroom, 
 and white paper, dozens of pencils, and a sharpener that 
 made points on dull pencils. He was busy almost all the 
 time, and made a great deal of money. He had designed 
 the Larchborough house. Rita liked to watch him, but her 
 mother did not want her to go in his workroom. Rita had 
 tried to convince her that Father did not mind, but Lilias 
 refused to be convinced. Sometimes Rita thought her 
 mother knew that he did not mind, that it was she who did 
 not want her to be there with her father. 
 
 Rita could never make up her mind, though her mother 
 constantly asked her, which she loved more, him or Lilias. 
 Lilias thrilled her; she loved the smell of her perfumes, the 
 softness of her breast, her voice, her swaying body. Her 
 father smelled of ink and musty tobacco, and could hold 
 her far up in the air with one hand. And somehow her 
 father understood . . . 
 
 " Hello," he said quietly. 
 
 Rita sighed. " Oh, Father! " she said. 
 
 He sat beside her. 
 
 " Father, why don't you ever ask me why I'm doing what 
 I am? " 
 
 He smiled gently at her. His smile was not like her 
 mother's; it did not show his teeth, nor make wrinkles about 
 his eyes, but it was pleasant, too. " Why you're not inside, 
 you mean? "
 
 PROLOGUE 19 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Do you want me to? " 
 
 Rita shook her head slowly. " I like you 'cause you 
 don't," she said, and pulled herself closer to him on the 
 railing. " Father, do people ever have what they want? " 
 
 Webster Moreland smiled again. " The pity of it is that 
 they do," he said. 
 
 Rita pondered. " The pity . . . You mean it was 
 nicer when they only wanted? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They were quiet again; then, gently, Rita put her hand 
 on her father's shoulder and leaned her face towards his 
 coat sleeve. She was an undemonstrative child, and he 
 started a little at her touch. 
 
 " I'm sorry, dear," she whispered. 
 
 He knew that she did not understand, and he was glad. 
 " Rita, the thing that saves people is a sense of humor," 
 he said gravely. " And God, I don't know but that makes 
 them unhappier." 
 
 " I know," Rita said. Her father had smiled when he 
 came into her room that night. "Like tonight. He wanted 
 to dance with her, and I was unhappy. Only I couldn't be 
 comfortably unhappy because well, it's funny, Father, to 
 be unhappy when you're only twelve." 
 
 " Yes." He smiled again. " Rita, do you think it's 
 funny to be unhappy when you're only forty? " 
 
 Rita considered. " Of course forty's pretty old," she 
 said. " But isn't it funny to be unhappy ever? I mean 
 don't you always feel as if when you were grown-up ? " 
 
 " I guess you should." He got up abruptly, and went
 
 20 PROLOGUE 
 
 down the steps. Rita watched him. She knew that he was 
 going on another of those long walks that kept him out all 
 night and part of the next day, when he would return, take 
 a dip in the lake, and settle down to work. It was neuritis, 
 her mother said. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She went into the house quickly. Her mother was talk- 
 ing with Ernest Harvey. 
 
 " Where have you been? " 
 
 " Talking to Father." 
 
 Ernest Harvey laughed. " She is a clever child," he baid. 
 " I didn't know it could be done." 
 
 Rita looked at him with sudden disapproval ; for the first 
 time she realized that he did not like her father. But that 
 was because he was her mother's friend, of course. She was 
 the only person who loved them both and was loved in 
 return. She sighed and looked up at Lilias. 
 
 "The children are going now," she said. "You must 
 say good-bye to them." 
 
 " Yes, Mother." 
 
 After they had gone, Annie put her to bed, and she fell 
 asleep quickly ; it was eleven o'clock. And again her mother 
 woke her by coming to her room. 
 
 " I'm going to sleep with you tonight," she said. 
 
 Rita smiled sleepily from her pillow. " I'm awfully glad." 
 She watched her mother unfasten her earrings, take down 
 her hair. " Father's gone walking." 
 
 " Yes, I know." Her mother turned suddenly from the 
 mirror and stared at Rita. " What do you mean? What's 
 that got to do with anything? "
 
 PROLOGUE 21 
 
 "Why, nothing," Rita said. She lay, looking at the 
 ceiling, wondering what her mother had thought she meant. 
 She was sleepy, and glad when her mother turned out the 
 light and crept into bed beside her. 
 
 " Rita! " 
 
 " Yes, Mother." 
 
 " Do you think I'm beautiful? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mother." 
 
 " Do I look old? " 
 
 " Mother! Of course not." 
 
 " I'll be forty my next birthday." Her voice was sad, 
 and Rita rolled over and cuddled her head against her 
 mother's breast. " It's so sweet and comfy to be with you," 
 she said. She picked up her mother's hand and kissed it. 
 
 " Now you must go to sleep, dear." 
 
 She kissed her obediently, and curled into a ball, one arm 
 above her head. But she did not go to sleep. Her mother's 
 breathing was uneven, choked, and Rita lay listening for a 
 long time. She was not sure whether she had fallen asleep 
 or not, but she was roused suddenly by hearing the door 
 open. 
 
 First Mr. Harvey's head appeared; then his whole body. 
 His pajamas were pongee, and his pongee dressing-gown was 
 edged with scarlet. 
 
 " Lilias! " he whispered. 
 
 Rita knew that her mother was asleep, but at the sound 
 of her name, she opened her eyes and sat up. She looked 
 first at Rita, who closed her eyes quickly, and then at the 
 man. Her nightgown slipped from one shoulder. Rita 
 stared at her.
 
 22 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Go away! " Lilias whispered. 
 
 " Lilias" 
 
 " You must go away! " 
 
 He looked at her strangely. As Rita peered at him from 
 beneath the covers, he was unlike the Ernest Harvey she 
 had known. " Then kiss me," he said. 
 
 For a moment Lilias hesitated. " If you'll go," she said 
 finally. 
 
 Mr. Harvey stepped nearer and put his arms about her 
 shoulders, leaned over her. " Oh, Ernest! " she whispered. 
 Rita did not breathe ; she closed her eyes tightly. Then sud- 
 denly the door closed. Her mother's head had sunk to the 
 pillow. Rita choked, and she felt the contraction of her 
 mother's body, as she raised herself on one elbow. 
 
 "Rita! 
 
 Rita breathed softly, deep in the bed clothes. 
 
 " Rita, are you awake? " 
 
 Her mother sighed, and turned toward the opposite side 
 of the bed. As she moved, her hand fell to her side, and 
 touched her daughter's leg. Rita shuddered and drew away 
 from her; she lay rigid, stiff, her eyes wide open, listening 
 to her mother's breathing. 
 
 V 
 
 Mr. Harvey had gone back to New York. 
 
 Rita crouched on the couch in the living-room, waiting, 
 listening. Her mother and father were in the library, and 
 the door was locked. Once she heard her mother sob. 
 Then the hum of voices again. 
 
 Outside, it was a gorgeous day. Fall was beginning, and
 
 PROLOGUE 23 
 
 there was a new strength and wildness to everything. The 
 flowers, the leaves, the marshes that stretched out on one 
 side of the lake, were more brilliant; the sky was so blue that 
 it hurt Rita's eyes to look at it. It was the sort of day 
 that made her want to dance and fling up her arms, to run 
 over the grass until she fell and pressed her face on the 
 fragrant earth. There were nuts and apples, and if you went 
 in the automobile to Larchborough Center, you could buy 
 cider. 
 
 But the atmosphere within the house was stronger than 
 without; it was terrible and fascinating. Rita crouched 
 down and waited. 
 
 Finally they came out, and her mother sat down on the 
 couch beside her. Rita allowed her to put her arms about 
 her ; she held up her face patiently to her mother's kiss. 
 
 " Web, dear," her mother said. 
 
 Rita looked at him quickly. His smile was a really pleas- 
 ant one; he did not seem to think it was funny that Lilias 
 should call him " Web, dear." 
 
 " Yes, Lilias? " 
 
 " Don't work today. Let's take the car and go driving. 
 Annie will put up luncheon, and you and Rita and I can 
 have a picnic at Crewe's beach." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Her mother went into the kitchen; Rita pretended to read 
 her book, but she was watching her father. He hummed 
 as he took his sweater from the closet beside the fire- 
 place, found his cap. She heard her mother moving about 
 upstairs; when she came down she was in white, crisp and 
 clean. She wore an old red coat, belted loosely.
 
 24 PROLOGUE 
 
 "Lilias!" Webster Moreland smiled at her. "I 
 thought you'd thrown that coat out years ago! " 
 
 " Uh-huh? " Her mother threw him one of the smiles 
 that she usually kept for dinner parties or dances. She 
 sang softly as she went over to the mirror, and stood, tying 
 her black hair with a ribbon. Webster went towards her 
 slowly; pulled her into his arms and kissed her. 
 
 "Oh, Web!" Lilias said. 
 
 Rita began to laugh hysterically.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 WEBSTER MORELAND came home to Larchborough in the 
 summer of 1897, and found Lilias Carr, from the South, 
 visiting some Larchborough people. He was as surprised 
 and dazzled by her as was all the New England she was 
 visiting for the first time. She was beautiful, with all the 
 warmth and color of mixed blood, and there was a freedom, 
 a lack of restraint about her, that made people wonder if 
 she was " quite nice ". She showed a generous length of 
 silk stockings when she sat down; her evening gowns were 
 low over a curving white neck and bosom. 
 
 Her interest in Web Moreland developed into an amazing 
 interest in architecture; she surprised the school friend she 
 was visiting by her knowledge of Colonial houses. She 
 talked with just enough smattering of technicalities to make 
 Webster Moreland think she knew a great deal more, and 
 to flatter him by the way she accepted his statements. 
 
 They were engaged at the end of the summer, and in 
 the early autumn they were married and went to New York 
 for the winter. 
 
 Webster Moreland was disappointed in his bride. She 
 was lovely ; in every way she was all that a man could desire. 
 But she was not what he had been trained to imagine. 
 There was less winning to do than he had expected, no sud- 
 
 25
 
 26 PROLOGUE 
 
 den waves of shyness when he took her in his arms. She 
 lifted her mouth squarely to his kisses, and he had expected 
 to raise her head with a tender hand. It was his fault that 
 he was disappointed in her, but unconsciously he blamed her 
 because she did not personify his ideals of woman, and Lilias 
 realized that he was dissatisfied. 
 
 " You know, Web, you want me to be constantly sur- 
 prised that you love me," she said one day. " You want 
 to do all the deciding yourself. I can't kiss you until you 
 kiss me. I'm supposed to be like a fiddle that never sings 
 until your fingers play on it." 
 
 " That isn't so," he denied quickly. " I love to have you 
 come up behind me when I'm working and kiss me. I like 
 to feel that you love me as much as I love you." 
 
 But he did not, and they both knew it. He wanted her 
 to be passive, with a passivity that could be awakened to 
 fire by his least wish. He did not like to be made conscious 
 of her love unless he was in a mood for love-making. 
 And he took his love-making seriously; he could not look 
 up from his work and kiss her and return to his drawing. 
 There were times for work and times for love, and Webster 
 Moreland wanted them distinctly separated. It was partly 
 that he had idealized love, and did not wish it soiled by 
 thoughts of work, and partly that he did not want his work 
 interrupted. 
 
 Lilias tried to understand his feelings, but she found it 
 impossible. And she could not learn to be merely an in- 
 strument upon which his moods might play. 
 
 " The days are so long, Web," she complained. " You 
 have your work, and I have nothing. I don't take care of
 
 PROLOGUE 27 
 
 your house I have nothing to do but wait for you. If 
 only I could work with you! " 
 
 " What did you do before we were married? " he asked. 
 
 Lilias smiled. " Why, I suppose I was getting me a 
 husband," she said frankly, and did not know how her 
 words jarred him. " I was planning clothes that made 
 me attractive and going about where I could meet men." 
 
 Rita was born the first year of their marriage, and Lilias, 
 lying white and ill on the bed, looked up at her husband 
 and said that she would never have another child. He 
 looked at her as though she had said something blasphemous. 
 Again she had fallen short of his demands. He had expected 
 to see her rosy and happy, her eyes shining with admiration 
 and wonder. He did not take into consideration that she 
 was weak and tired, that perhaps later she would change 
 her mind. 
 
 She was tender and amused when they brought her daugh- 
 ter to her. 
 
 " What a funny little red-headed thing! " she said. " Do 
 they all look as bad as that? " She found no answer to her 
 smile in her husband's eyes. He held the baby in his arms, 
 and looked at his wife disapprovingly. Then he gave the 
 baby to the arms of the nurse and went downstairs into 
 the library without a word. 
 
 Lilias watched him weakly, and then turned to look at 
 her daughter. She had not wanted a child, but Webster 
 had been so horrified, that she had surrendered her will to 
 his, and become even glad that she was going to be a mother. 
 It had been hard for her; for several months she had not 
 been able to leave her bedroom. Her husband had been
 
 28 PROLOGUE 
 
 tender and proud, and while they talked of the child they 
 had wanted a son Lilias had forgotten her discomfort. But 
 now . . . 
 
 " Please take her away," she said gently, as the nurse 
 came towards her. " I want to go to sleep."
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 HER mother and father had gone abroad, and Rita was 
 spending the winter in Boston with her aunt and uncle. 
 They were not really her aunt and uncle, but she had called 
 them that ever since she could remember. Aunt Helen had 
 known Mother when they were both little girls, and Uncle 
 Dick and Father had been in college together. 
 
 There were three children; the twins, Peter and Ruthie, 
 who were three years younger than Rita, and Donald, who 
 was three years older. They were all at school when Lilias 
 brought Rita to the house, and when they came back they 
 found her in the nursery. Rita looked up from the castle 
 she was building with the twins' blocks, and saw them peer- 
 ing at her from behind Aunt Helen's skirts. The twins were 
 rosy, brown-haired children, with round mouths and eyes. 
 Rita wanted to start immediately pretending that she was 
 their mother. Donald Wells was tall, almost as tall as his 
 mother, and broad; his hair was fair, and he had pleasant 
 gray eyes. 
 
 While Rita stared, the three children stared, too. They 
 saw a girl, tall and white, in a short black velvet dress, with 
 long thin legs in black silk stockings. Her red hair hung 
 almost to her waist, and her eyebrows were thick and black. 
 
 " She has green eyes," Peter whispered to Ruthie. 
 
 29
 
 30 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Hush! " said Donald. 
 
 " These are your cousins," Aunt Helen said, smiling. 
 " Now, children, play together and don't quarrel. I'm going 
 downstairs." 
 
 The twins stood shyly by the door, staring at Rita. 
 
 " Those are our blocks," Peter said, and was overcome 
 with shyness. 
 
 " What are you making? " asked Donald. He came 
 nearer, and stood, looking down at her. 
 
 " A castle," Rita said. " They're nice blocks. I never 
 had any." 
 
 " She can have half of ours, can't she? " Ruthie 
 whispered to Peter, who shook his head indignantly. " Well, 
 you can have half of mine, Rita." 
 
 " She can have 'em all if she wants," said Donald author- 
 itatively. 
 
 " I just want to play with them sometimes," said Rita. 
 " I'm really too old for blocks." 
 
 " How old are you? " Donald asked. 
 
 " Twelve." 
 
 " I'm fifteen. I'm studying Latin." 
 
 " I've studied Latin," Rita said. " With a tutor." 
 
 Donald looked at her curiously. " What Latin? " 
 
 " Cssar." 
 
 He opened his school-bag and turned the pages of a 
 worn black book. " Can you read this? " 
 
 Rita smiled. " That's mean," she said. " You know he 
 always builds bridges in the subjunctive! " 
 
 They looked at each other again. " What grade are you 
 in?"
 
 PROLOGUE 31 
 
 " I've never been to a regular school I had a tutor at 
 home. Mother says I can go to school this winter." 
 
 " It's not much fun." 
 
 The twins sat down on the floor, and rattled the blocks 
 impatiently. " Let's make a walled city," said Ruthie. 
 
 " All right," said Rita. 
 
 " I'm going to play, too, today," Donald said. " I'll be 
 the contractor and you're my workmen." He sat down on 
 the floor beside Rita. " This rug will be an island, and all 
 the rest of the floor is ocean. You start on the wall, Ruthie 
 and Pete. She can help with the castle." 
 
 *' The round blocks can be watch towers," Rita said. 
 
 The twins looked up at her. " We never use them for 
 that," explained Ruthie. 
 
 " You can today," said Donald. " There ought to be 
 watch towers to look out over the sea for pirates." 
 
 The city was almost finished, when a bell rang downstairs. 
 Donald ran into the hall. " Mother, we're building such a 
 fine city. Can't we leave the blocks on the floor tonight? " 
 
 "Just tonight, then," called Aunt Helen. " Because it's 
 Friday." 
 
 Rita wondered what that had to do with it, but she was 
 silent. Donald and the twins began piling up the blocks 
 that were not in use in the city; the nursery was in order 
 when a second bell rang. 
 
 " We've got to wash now," Ruthie explained. " It's 
 supper." 
 
 "But it's only six o'clock," said Rita, looking at her gold 
 wrist- watch. 
 
 The twins stared at her again.
 
 32 PROLOGUE 
 
 " We have supper at six," Donald said. " When do you 
 have it?" 
 
 " Half-past seven." 
 
 "We have to go to bed at seven," said Peter, and was 
 again overcome with embarrassment. 
 
 " I can sit up till nine because I'm fifteen," Donald said. 
 " Maybe you can, too." 
 
 They hurried into the bathroom. Above the towel-racks 
 were printed bits of cardboard bearing each child's name; 
 one of them said " Rita " on it. Donald pointed it out to 
 her. Finally they went downstairs into the dining-room. 
 
 Rita shook hands with Uncle Dick Wells and sat be- 
 tween him and Donald. The twins were side by side at 
 the other end of the table; Aunt Helen faced her husband. 
 Rita watched, fascinated, while he carved the roast ; at home 
 it was carved in the kitchen. There were bowls of jelly and 
 stewed corn and muffins. Rita liked the food better than 
 anything she had at home. For dessert, Aunt Helen and 
 Uncle Dick had pie, and the four children had apple-sauce. 
 There was a large pitcher of cream, and plenty of powdered 
 sugar. 
 
 " Does she stay up till nine? " asked Donald. 
 
 Aunt Helen looked thoughtful. " What time do you go to 
 bed at home, Rita? " 
 
 " I used to go at half-past eight," answered Rita, " but 
 since I've been twelve, I've stayed up till 'most any time. 
 We had a man at the house this summer, and Mother wanted 
 me at dinner so there'd be someone to talk to Father." 
 
 Uncle Dick choked. 
 
 " Why doesn't she talk to Father? " asked Ruthie.
 
 PROLOGUE 33 
 
 " Hush, Ruthie! " said Aunt Helen. 
 
 " She doesn't like him," Rita said. 
 
 There was a sudden silence. 
 
 " At least," Rita continued, " I guess she likes him now. 
 She didn't used to." 
 
 " Isn't he nice? " asked Donald. 
 
 " Oh, yes, he's lovely. So is Mother, but they like dif- 
 ferent things." 
 
 " Did the man at dinner like the same things your mother 
 likes? " asked Ruthie. 
 
 "Hush!" Aunt Helen said again. After dinner, she 
 called Rita to her. The twins and Donald were talking with 
 their father. 
 
 " Rita dear," she began. " I you know that I love your 
 mother very dearly, don't you? " 
 
 Rita did not know it, but she nodded. 
 
 " I I don't want you to talk to the children about your 
 mother and father," Aunt Helen said. " I mean " 
 
 Rita flushed. Her face was hot, and she wanted to hide. 
 
 " I don't quite mean that," said Aunt Helen. Her voice 
 sounded as though she were going to cry. Rita put out her 
 hand and touched her arm. 
 
 " I know what you mean," she said. For a moment her 
 eyes that were green like her father's, had the melancholy 
 softness of her mother's eyes. " I know," she repeated. 
 
 " Rita! " Donald called. " Come on over. Dad's going 
 to tell us a story before the kids go to bed." 
 
 Rita looked at her aunt questioningly, and Aunt Helen 
 leaned over, with a strange, choking noise, and caught her 
 in her arms. Aunt Helen did not smell of perfume as her
 
 34 PROLOGUE 
 
 mother did; there was a fragrance of clean linen and soap 
 about her. " Run along, darling," she said. Rita wondered 
 why there were tears in her eyes. 
 
 She sat down on the floor beside Donald, and looked 
 about the room as Uncle Dick began to talk. It was not 
 so pretty as her mother's living-room, but she liked it better. 
 The chairs were lumpier and more worn, and there were 
 more books, some that looked very old. Rita stared at 
 Donald and the twins. They accepted her as another child; 
 they thought that all children were like them. She looked 
 up at Uncle Dick, smiling as he talked. 
 
 She felt suddenly that she hated her mother. 
 
 II 
 
 In the morning, after her first night in Boston, Rita woke 
 up early. She liked her room; it was large and square, and 
 the sunlight came in through the window. The house was 
 still; then downstairs she heard the cook starting the fire in 
 the stove. She lay quietly, listening, looking about her. 
 
 Aunt Helen came in and smiled. " Good-morning, dar- 
 ling." 
 
 " Good-morning, Aunt Helen." She lifted her face for her 
 kiss. 
 
 Aunt Helen was not in negligee; she was dressed in brown 
 gingham like the twins' clothes, and her hair was smooth and 
 shiny. She sat down on the edge of the bed. " I'm glad 
 you're here with us, Rita," she said. " I've always wanted 
 to know you. You're my only niece and -not a really, truly 
 niece at that."
 
 PROLOGUE 35 
 
 " I'd forgotten I had an aunt at all," Rita said. " Of 
 course at Christmas, you and Uncle Dick always sent me 
 presents." 
 
 Aunt Helen smiled again. " I'm glad you're going to be 
 with us here this Christmas," she said. 
 
 The day that started so pleasantly did not disappoint 
 her. It was Saturday, and although Uncle Dick had to go 
 to his office, the children did not have to go to school. In 
 the morning, they finished the walled city, and then Peter 
 and Ruthie pretended that they were an earthquake and 
 shook it to the floor. Uncle Dick returned for luncheon, 
 and was very gay and laughing at the head of the 
 table. 
 
 " Saturday afternoon belongs to Dad and Mother," Don- 
 ald explained to Rita. " But tomorrow is all ours. You 
 just wait, Rita Moreland! " 
 
 Rita waited impatiently. But waiting did not prevent 
 her from roller-skating along the river-side in the afternoon 
 with Donald; helping Esther, the colored cook, make cin- 
 namon toast for tea; reading a fairy-tale to the twins and 
 Donald they had already discovered that she could read 
 aloud almost as well as their mother; pretending that she 
 was a captive queen in a gilt crown and a yellow silk dress, 
 while the twins were the royal children, and Donald, the 
 pirate, with black whiskers; being shamefully beaten at 
 dominoes by all three children; and finally being tucked 
 into bed by Aunt Helen, prettier than Rita had ever seen 
 her, in a pink evening dress. 
 
 On Sunday morning, although she had been expecting to 
 wake up early, Donald found Rita asleep when he came into
 
 36 PROLOGUE 
 
 her room. He stood by her bed, looking at her, until she 
 opened her eyes and smiled drowsily. 
 
 " We all go into Mother's room," he said. " Come along." 
 
 Rita pushed her bare feet into her slippers, pulled 
 her bathrobe about her, and followed him through the 
 hall. 
 
 Aunt Helen's room was large, with white paint and yellow 
 paper. There were dozens of pictures of the three chil- 
 dren, from the first baby pictures to a group of them with 
 Uncle Dick that had been taken only a short time before. 
 The twins were sitting at the foot of the wide bed, looking 
 at the picture pages of the Sunday papers. Uncle Dick was 
 propped up by three pillows, reading the news sections, and 
 Aunt Helen read over his shoulder. She held out her arms 
 to Rita, who sat b.eside her, contented and sleepy. Donald 
 climbed beside his father, who pulled his nose absently and 
 went on reading. 
 
 "The world is so full of a number of things, Dick," 
 Aunt Helen said, looking over his shoulder. 
 
 Uncle Dick smiled and grunted. Finally he pushed the 
 papers away, leaned over, and seized one of the twins in 
 either hand, rolled them over, and off to the floor. 
 
 " Oh, Daddy, do it again! " Ruthie said, climbing up 
 breathlessly. 
 
 Uncle Dick sat up in bed and seized her, held her high 
 in the air. " Well, young woman, what shall we do today? " 
 he asked, tossing her up and down. 
 
 Ruthie screamed unintelligibly. 
 
 " Let's go to Franklin Park and see the elephants," said 
 Peter.
 
 PROLOGUE 37 
 
 " No, let's go to the country and get nuts and eat 'em," 
 Ruthie said. 
 
 " Dad! " Donald clutched the sleeve of his father's 
 pajamas. " Dad, Rita has never seen Paul Revere's house 
 or the church where he hung the lanterns or Fanueil Hall 
 or the graveyard where Mother Goose is buried or anything. 
 Let's go there." 
 
 "Heavens! " said Uncle Dick. "I can be in only one 
 place at once. What do you say, Rita? " 
 
 Rita cuddled shyly closer to Aunt Helen. " Oh, I'd love 
 to do anything you want to," she said, and laughed as Uncle 
 Dick dropped Ruthie with a thump, and lifted her from 
 Aunt Helen's side, high in his two hands. 
 
 " I know what let's do," Aunt Helen said. " Let's get 
 breakfast. I'm hungry as a bear." 
 
 " We have waffles on Sunday," said Peter. " And lots of 
 maple syrup." 
 
 " Quick! " said Aunt Helen. " Attention! " 
 
 Rita climbed out of bed and stood in line with the others. 
 
 " Let's see who'll be dressed first. Twins, I'll give you 
 your bath because you're slowest. Rita, first in the other 
 bathroom, then Donald. Hustle! " 
 
 They scampered off in different directions, and as Rita 
 closed the door of the bathroom behind her, she heard Uncle 
 Dick laughing. Oh, it was so pleasant to be part of a family ! 
 Rita was so happy that she cried softly for a moment before 
 her bath was ready. Then she remembered that they were 
 racing, and hurried through her bath, pattered into her own 
 room. 
 
 " I'm dressed," screamed Donald. " Hi, Rita! "
 
 38 PROLOGUE 
 
 Rita came out into the hall, buttoning her dress, and 
 waved to him as he slid down the banisters. 
 
 " You're bigger'n we are," said Peter. " Thart's no fair." 
 
 " Pete, you're slow," Uncle Dick called. " Why, even an 
 old man like me, with much more height, and breadth to 
 cover, can beat you! " 
 
 "His buttons are harder! " Ruthie defended him. 
 
 Finally they were all downstairs. Aunt Helen sat at her 
 end of the table, pouring coffee and tall glasses of milk for 
 the four children, buttering the toast that turned from white 
 to golden on the electric toaster. Sunday morning break- 
 fast was a feast; Rita thought of her mother's iced half 
 grapefruit and cup of black coffee, and pitied her intensely. 
 There were apple sauce and soft boiled eggs and toast; then 
 there were more waffles than you could eat, and a pitcher 
 as tall as the milk pitcher of maple syrup. " From Grand- 
 mother's in Vermont," Donald explained. 
 
 " Well, what is it to be? " asked Uncle Dick, taking his 
 fourth waffle. " Nuts animals or history? " 
 
 " Rita must choose," said Aunt Helen. 
 
 Rita flushed. Then she turned towards Donald and 
 smiled. " I would like to see the house where Paul Revere 
 lived, and the church where he hung one if by land and two 
 if by sea," she said. 
 
 " Personally conducted history class it shall be," said 
 Uncle Dick. " Nuts and wild animals deferred until next 
 Sunday." 
 
 " Or perhaps this afternoon, Dick," said Aunt Helen. 
 
 Uncle Dick looked at her severely. " Helen, how can 
 you spoil my little surprises? " he demanded.
 
 PROLOGUE 39 
 
 " Great minds " said Aunt Helen, and blew him a kiss 
 across the table. 
 
 And so it was both. In the morning they traipsed from 
 the grave of Mother Goose to the home of Paul Revere 
 and the Old North Church; then hurriedly back to the 
 house in Louisburg Square to pick up the luncheon that 
 Esther had packed and climb into the car. 
 
 Donald pulled up a twelve-inch fir tree in the woods and 
 brought it home to plant in the yard; the twins each filled 
 a basket with nuts; Peter chattered excitedly about the 
 animals. Rita was silent, but she smiled constantly at them 
 all. 
 
 Oh, it was good to belong to a family! 
 
 Ill 
 
 " Mother says we can go! " Donald said, rushing up to 
 the nursery. 
 
 " Oh, I'm glad," said Rita. She hurried to her room, 
 and put on her hat and coat. 
 
 When they closed the door of the house behind them, the 
 whole world seemed to stretch out, to call to them. For a 
 moment they stood looking before them. Louisburg Square 
 was wrapped in snow; it lay in heavy masses, caught in 
 the branches of the trees as though pieces of cloud had blown 
 down and become tangled. The snow hung and dripped like 
 stiffly beaten white-of-egg from the eaves of the houses; 
 it was banked in solid walls on either side of the pavements 
 sheets of glazed ice with pink bricks shining through. 
 
 Hand in hand, the two children wound their way through
 
 40 PROLOGUE 
 
 the crooked streets, climbed Chestnut Street and came out 
 beside the State-house. 
 
 " Let's run," said Donald. He took more firm hold of 
 Rita's hand, and they rushed down the steep, slippery mall. 
 
 " Oh I can hardly breathe! " Rita panted, as they 
 stopped and turned to look back at the long slope. 
 
 Donald stared at her. " My, you've got red cheeks! " he 
 said. 
 
 Rita put up a mittened hand and touched them. " They 
 burn." 
 
 He picked up a handful of snow, and before she knew 
 what he was about, had rubbed it over her face. " So's it 
 won't freeze," he told her solemnly. 
 
 " They're frozen now," she said, smiling. 
 
 It was in 1910. The white marble wings of the State- 
 house were still in the minds of politicians, and the yellow 
 brick building was warm above the snow. Like a great sun, 
 it crowned the top of the hill; the old Beacon street houses 
 lurched down at its left, and the Common swept away majes- 
 tically before it. 
 
 " I hope they've cleaned the snow from the pond," Donald 
 said, as they turned towards the Public Gardens. 
 
 The artificial lake was a smooth sheet of ice, curving in 
 to the snow-banked shores. Rita sat down on a bench, and 
 he knelt to fasten her skates; then he sat beside her to put 
 on his own. 
 
 " You'll learn quickly enough," he assured her. " Hold on 
 to me tight, though, and try to keep your balance." 
 
 Uncertainly, they sailed out towards the middle of the 
 pond.
 
 PROLOGUE 41 
 
 " You won't fall," Donald warned her. " Use your arms 
 to balance." 
 
 They skated painfully over to the artificial island, and 
 sat down breathlessly on a rock. 
 
 " Want to try alone? " 
 
 " You go first," said Rita. She watched him push off and 
 skate gracefully out on the ice. Then she shuffled after 
 him, waving her arms up and down like a windmill. Two 
 or three times she lost her balance and fell, but it was all 
 great fun, and she kept at it until she could cross the pond 
 without falling. 
 
 When they came home, they were chattering with cold, 
 and Aunt Helen sent a pitcher of hot lemonade to the 
 nursery for them, when they had taken off their wet clothes. 
 
 Christmas came, and the shimmering tree, the piles of 
 presents. New Year's, which was not so much of a holi- 
 day as it was in New York; February, with St. Valentine's 
 Day and Lincoln's birthday and Washington's crammed one 
 after the other. There was still coasting, but the snow was 
 beginning to melt. March brought St. Patrick's day, more 
 the day of the shamrock than of the evacuation of Boston, 
 and winds that swept the face of the city rattled along the 
 roofs, shook the trees. Rita went to school every day and 
 studied her home lessons in the library with Donald at night. 
 Bedtime was always at nine, but Rita was rarely wide-awake 
 enough to be reluctant when Aunt Helen or Uncle Dick 
 looked up and said, " Well, children? " 
 
 The seventh of April was a warm day, and Aunt Helen 
 had allowed Rita and Donald to take their bicycles and ride 
 through the Fenway. Rita's bicycle had been a present from
 
 42 PROLOGUE 
 
 her mother, Aunt Helen had said; secretly Rita suspected 
 that it was Aunt Helen's idea, though perhaps her mother's 
 money. The gingham dresses that Aunt Helen had made 
 her could be smeared with grease and oil and torn by the 
 pedals without fear of a scolding. Rita hung her hat over 
 the handlebars by its elastic, and she and Donald started 
 out. She had learned to ride " no hands ", and to rest her 
 feet on the bar while the bicycle slid down a long hill; she 
 could stand up on her pedals and lean well forward to race 
 with her cousin. 
 
 The frost had fallen away from the ground, and there was 
 a smell of sweet earth; the trees were not in leaf, but the 
 gray branches were furry with the buds that were almost 
 ready to burst. 
 
 " Let's get off and sit on the grass for a while," Donald 
 said. They were in the Fenway, and it was as quiet as 
 though they were bicycling along a country road; the city 
 was lost beyond the limits of the park. They wheeled their 
 bicycles up on the grass, and sat down lazily in the sun- 
 shine. 
 
 " It's been awful nice having you live with us, Rita." 
 
 " Awful nice," she repeated. " We're always going to 
 be good friends even after I go away aren't we? " 
 
 " You bet we are. I never liked girls much, but you're 
 like another fellow, Rita." 
 
 " I'm glad." Rita clasped her knees, and sat looking at 
 him. "Oh, I'm so happy! Donald ..." 
 
 " Yeh? " 
 
 " You won't grow up and not like me because I'm a girl, 
 will you? Boys do, you know."
 
 PROLOGUE 43 
 
 " 'Course I won't." 
 
 " We will always be friends? " 
 
 " Always." 
 
 They smiled at each other again. The sunshine beat 
 down, and they felt warm and comfortable; it was pleas- 
 ant to smell the earth and the spring about them. Rita 
 looked at Donald thoughtfully. 
 
 " I'm going to give you my signet ring, Donald," she 
 said. " It's loads too big for me, and it'll be a sort of 
 pledge like in stories. It means that as long as you wear 
 it, you like me and will be my friend." 
 
 He smiled. " I'll give you the ring Mother gave me, if 
 you like. It'll be too big, though." 
 
 " I'll wear it around my neck on a string until I grow," 
 Rita said. 
 
 They took each other's rings and were quiet for a 
 moment; it was solemn, and somehow they did not want to 
 talk. It was the first time that either of them had ever 
 thought abstractly of friendship, and as they sat there, they 
 thought of all the years that were coming, of all the new 
 people they would meet. 
 
 " I'll race you to the next entrance to the Park," said 
 Donald abruptly. They jumped to their feet and stood, 
 side by side, each with a foot on the ground and a foot on 
 the bicycle pedaL " One two three go ! " They sped 
 off excitedly. 
 
 When they came back, their faces were streaked with 
 dust, and Rita's arms were full of pussy-willows. They 
 burst into the house noisily. 
 
 " Oh, Aunt Helen," Rita called, beginning to talk as soon
 
 44 PROLOGUE 
 
 as she closed the door. " We went all the way to Jamaica 
 Plain and there were some pussy-willows and I wanted them 
 but I didn't dare get them because there were signs and 
 Donald got off and picked them for me and we came to a 
 brook and we took off our shoes and stockings and " She 
 stopped, as she reached the living-room. 
 
 Her mother was sitting on the couch beside Aunt Helen. 
 
 She was not so beautiful as Rita had remembered her; 
 the powder that she rubbed on her face it was liquid and 
 fragrant and came in a long, narrow-necked bottle was too 
 white. Her hat was the largest Rita had ever seen, black, 
 lined with gold, and a gold threaded black veil hung about 
 her face. Her slippers and dress were black and gold 
 brocade. 
 
 " Rita darling! " she said, and held out her arms. 
 
 Rita ran over to her. It was pleasant to be caught tightly 
 to her breast again, to smell her perfume. But the gold 
 flowers on her dress were rough against her face. 
 
 " Rita darling! " 
 
 " Oh, Mother! " Rita said. She turned and saw Donald 
 staring unhappily at her. The thought that troubled him 
 flashed into her mind. " Mother, you're not going to take 
 me away? " 
 
 Her mother's arm about her loosened. "Why, Rita! " 
 she said. 
 
 " She'll miss the children," Aunt Helen explained softly. 
 
 Rita turned and stared at her. 
 
 " Aren't you glad to see me? " asked Lilias. 
 
 "Oh, awfully glad!" Rita said. " But but I didn't 
 know that you were coming so soon."
 
 PROLOGUE 45 
 
 Lilias Moreland laughed. " You'd have been prepared, 
 then? Well, I've come, Rita. I've come to take you away 
 to take you home." 
 
 Rita's lip trembled. " Yes, Mother," she said. 
 
 Her mother looked at her in amusement. " What a 
 dirty frock, Rita! And how fat you've grown! " 
 
 Rita looked at her solemnly. 
 
 " You'd better run upstairs and wash, Donald," Aunt 
 Helen said softly, turning to her son who was staring angrily 
 at Lilias. " You're very dusty." 
 
 " All right, Mother." 
 
 " I'm going, too," Rita said. She rushed out after him, 
 and found him at the head of the stairs, leaning on the 
 balustrade. "Oh, Donald! " she said. She stood beside 
 him and he took her hand. " Will you miss me? " 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " 
 
 They looked at each other sorrowfully. 
 
 " I'll come back," she said. She buried her face in her 
 hands. " Oh, but I don't want to go! " she sobbed. "I 
 don't! It's been so lovely and sweet and now " 
 
 Donald watched her unhappily. " Come along," he said. 
 He led her into the bathroom, and washed her face him- 
 self, with his own washcloth. 
 
 " Rita ! " It was her mother calling. 
 
 Donald wiped her eyes again, although he had already 
 dried them. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She stood silently, looking at him with round, mournful 
 eyes. 
 
 "Rita!"
 
 46 PROLOGUE 
 
 " She's coming," Donald called huskily. He looked at 
 her helplessly. They stood, facing each other, their arms 
 limp at their sides. " Go on," Donald said. 
 
 He turned her about roughly and pushed her into the 
 hall. She looked back, and saw a tear making a track down 
 his dusty cheek. 
 
 She gulped, and rushed blindly down the stairs. 
 
 IV 
 
 The black velvet dress seemed to have shrunk; it was a 
 long time since Rita had worn it. She had forgotten the 
 black hat with the curly ostrich feathers, too. She carried 
 white gloves in her hands they had not been worn all 
 winter. 
 
 The taxi-cab bumped through the narrow streets. 
 
 " Where are we going, Mother? " 
 
 " To the station, of course." 
 
 Rita sighed. " I know that. I mean are we going to 
 New York or to Larchborough? " 
 
 " Larchborough, of course. You do ask silly questions, 
 Rita. Why should we go to New York in April? " 
 
 Rita did not answer. " Did you and Father have a nice 
 time abroad? " she asked finally. 
 
 " Oh, fair. By the way, Rita, we're going to have a guest 
 with us part of the summer he came back on the boat with 
 me. A Mr. North." 
 
 Rita turned to her mother and smiled faintly. " Friend 
 of Father's? " she asked. 
 
 Lilias looked at her quickly. " Mr. North is a friend 
 to us both, of course, Rita."
 
 PROLOGUE 47 
 
 Rita smiled again. The cab drew up at the station, and 
 she climbed into the train with her mother sadly. Of course 
 some day she would go back to Boston and to Uncle Dick 
 and Aunt Helen. But it was hard to leave them all. 
 
 And Larchborough would be the same. She knew that 
 her father would take up his long walks again, and that she 
 would sit up at dinner to talk with him, while her mother 
 and the new man talked in low voices. Perhaps she would 
 never go back to Boston again ; Rita closed her eyes quickly, 
 and tried not to think.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 THE summer at Larchborough was a lonely one for Rita. 
 The grown people were insufficient after the year with 
 Donald and the twins; the boys and girls she had played 
 with before had either passed her in development, or lagged 
 behind. Bobby had become extremely masculine, and his 
 scorn for girls included Rita. He played baseball and foot- 
 ball and went fishing; he blushed and squirmed when Rita 
 spoke to him. 
 
 So Rita sought the library and began to read. She had 
 read all the books in her own room, and the sets of Cooper, 
 Scott, and Dickens in the library. She read Poe, and used 
 to tremble in her bed at night. She tried De Maupassant 
 and was fascinated and repelled; in all, she read about 
 three volumes of short stories before she pushed him aside 
 and went on to Balzac. Then she discovered a shelf of 
 paper-covered novels, and in the center, " Mademoiselle de 
 Maupin ", which she began to read because of its illustra- 
 tions. 
 
 Sometimes, when she read, the beauty of the words hurt 
 her so that she put the book down, and sat with her eyes 
 closed, as though she were hypnotized. She did not like 
 the story; it dissatisfied her vaguely. But she kept the 
 book in her own room, and read and reread paragraphs 
 
 48
 
 PROLOGUE 49 
 
 from it. Luck brought her next to " The Confessions of 
 a Young Man ". 
 
 " He's wrong, Father," she said to Webster Moreland 
 one day when he came into the library and sat down beside 
 her. " He quotes ' Mademoiselle de Maupin ' who said that 
 the face of love can be looked on only once, and says that 
 a good book can be read only once. It's so very wrong, 
 Father." 
 
 Webster Moreland smiled. " How old are you, Rita? " 
 
 "Thirteen. Why, Father?" 
 
 " I couldn't remember. I'm glad you like to read, Rita, 
 there is no better way of finding out what you believe." 
 
 Rita nodded. " But, Father, don't you think he's wrong? " 
 
 He laughed. " What I think doesn't matter to you, Rita. 
 You must form your own opinions." He went on into his 
 workroom, and Rita sat looking after him. She wanted to 
 hear someone's opinions, and neither her mother nor father 
 would talk with her. How was she going to learn things 
 . . . She shrugged her shoulders and went on reading. 
 
 Marie Bashkir tseff's diary was next on the shelf, and 
 Rita's heart went out to the little Russian girl. Rita had 
 never kept a diary; the winter in Boston had been too full 
 for her to think about herself, and in the years before that 
 she had been a child. For the first time she was conscious 
 that she was a girl, and the realization of it filled all her 
 thoughts. 
 
 She would grow up to be a woman perhaps a beautiful 
 woman. She would have beaux, and graduate from beaux 
 to lovers, perhaps some day a husband. She would love, 
 and be loved; some day she might have children. Rita
 
 50 PROLOGUE 
 
 was thirteen years old, and she understood about babies 
 now. Then in addition to becoming a woman, she would 
 become a person. She would have hands and a brain to 
 keep busy; she would work. It was confusing, and she 
 wanted to talk with someone about it, but there was no one 
 with whom she could talk. 
 
 She bought herself a great notebook, and a bottle of 
 violet ink. 
 
 II 
 
 August 3rd, 1911. 
 
 There are so many things I want to write in my diary 
 tonight, and so little time to do it all. I guess, first of all, 
 I want to think about the things I've been reading. In 
 " The Importance of Being Earnest ", Cecily says, " You 
 see, it is simply a very young girl's record of her own 
 thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for pub- 
 lication." And in the margin, Mother had crossed out 
 meant and written unfit. It makes me think that Mother 
 could never have been a young girl for of course Oscar 
 Wilde meant meant. And I wonder if it isn't true. I don't 
 like to admit it even to myself, but I'm afraid it is of mine. 
 Because I do think I'm exceptional I suppose everyone 
 does but somehow I am different. I think I should have 
 liked Oscar Wilde. He understands so much. There's " The 
 Decay of Lying ", where Vivian says, " Who wants to be 
 consistent? " Oh, I don't it's so terribly dull and unin- 
 teresting. Father's consistent, and Mother tries to be, which 
 is just as bad. Mother, of course, has no imagination at 
 all.
 
 PROLOGUE 51 
 
 Tonight when we came up to bed, we stopped in the 
 hall to light candles. I lighted Mother's in her favorite 
 candle-stick, a funny little shallow brass saucer, with a 
 tiny stand for the candle. The candle towered up above 
 it it was a fresh one. " It looks like an overgrown boy 
 in short trousers, doesn't it? " I asked. " I hope it won't 
 drip over my bureau," Mother said. " It's windy outside. 
 Good-night, dear." 
 
 Oh, how can people be like that! It makes me sympathize 
 with Marie Bashkirtseff for throwing the dining-room clock 
 into the sea. Oh, how I'd love to throw something into 
 the lake! I hope it was a square, substantial, black marble 
 clock that looked like the shiny coffin of a baby buried at 
 sea as it went down into the water, saying conventionally, 
 even in its hour of death, " Tick-tock. Tick-tock." like 
 the alarm clock the alligator swallowed in Peter Pan. Oh, 
 I'm so unhappy! I'd like to burn up all my clothes, or cut 
 off one of my fingers with the carving knife, or kick the 
 dog, or scream just as loud as I canl 
 
 August 4th, 1911. 
 
 I've just come in from picking a great bunch of nastur- 
 tiums rich crimson ones and goldey yellow ones, and 
 orange and salmon ones. I love to pick flowers. At least 
 when I'm picking them for the fun. There are two ways 
 of picking them when all the vases are empty and must be 
 filled, I pick steadily and thoroughly. But when the vases 
 are all filled, and so is the garden, I can run from blossom 
 to blossom, always seeing a prettier one ahead, or else 
 behind. It's so simple to be happy then.
 
 52 PROLOGUE 
 
 I think life is like that. I'm not happy now. I think 
 I am dreaming too much I feel as if I were two persons, 
 and while / am thinking, there run other thoughts through 
 my head. It seems as though I know what they are, but 
 when I try to translate them to my own mind, I am left 
 only with the thoughts / was thinking, and a feeling of some- 
 thing wrong and sad. 
 
 I think it's because there are two Rita Morelands now, 
 and I'm not one or the other. I wish I was either grown- 
 up or a little girl. It's so horrid not to be either. Some- 
 times I cut out paper dolls and make them dresses and have 
 a lovely time all day, and then all of a sudden I wish I was 
 a woman with someone who loved me. Perhaps if I had 
 more to do, I wouldn't feel so badly. But I don't know. 
 I wish I knew what I wanted. 
 
 Ill 
 
 In the fall of 1911, Rita was sent to a girls' boarding- 
 school. She went willingly, not because she particularly 
 wanted to go, but because she preferred it to staying at 
 home, and could not think of anything more interesting to 
 do. She was happier than she had been at Larchborough. 
 She could never, of course, return to the happiness she had 
 felt at Aunt Helen's; she had begun to think about her- 
 self, and although her thoughts made her unhappy and dis- 
 satisfied, there was nothing else in the world that interested 
 her so much. She would not have traded her new self- 
 consciousness for all the content in the world. 
 
 At the school, she found girls of all types; it interested
 
 PROLOGUE 53 
 
 her to discover that the girls who were considered " intel- 
 lectual ", who studied, and were interested in the world in 
 general, attracted her least. Her two nearest friends were 
 Janet Crosby and Marian Bailey. 
 
 Janet was a few months older than Rita, a tall, well- 
 proportioned girl, with pink cheeks and fair hair. She was 
 very pretty; Rita felt that she could look at her for hours 
 without stopping if Janet would permit it. She was all that 
 Rita wanted to be; obviously pretty, graceful, with many 
 little accomplishments. Rita was beginning to know her- 
 self well; she realized that she would be beautiful, but it 
 was not at all the type of beauty she desired. First of all, 
 she would be " interesting looking ", with her pale skin and 
 red hair, her heavy brows and green eyes. She looked, out- 
 wardly, like her father, but her mother's warmth and fire 
 had given her something more. She would never be able 
 to draw a little, play the piano and the mandolin slightly, 
 write fairly well, act as well as the best amateurs, swim 
 and play tennis, enjoy a George Barr McCutcheon novel 
 as well as write an interesting treatise on " The Way of All 
 Flesh ". Janet could do all those things. Rita would find 
 one subject that interested her, study it, know it thoroughly, 
 and hold to it. She knew that, and she wished that since 
 it was so, she could at least discover the subject. 
 
 Marian was entirely different, she was fat and awkward, 
 with a noisy laugh that she could never control. She 
 chewed gum, and adored Bernard Shaw, because he was so 
 original, and well, you know you've read " Mrs. Warren's 
 Profession "? Oscar Wilde amused her, but she read him 
 secretly, because he wasn't quite nice, and her parents
 
 54 PROLOGUE 
 
 disapproved of him. She found humor in everything, and 
 was thoroughly kind-hearted and generous. 
 
 Rita alternately studied and cut classes; she was more 
 interested in her English course than she had ever been in 
 anything, until she discovered that she was in danger of 
 becoming " teacher's pet ". Then she became almost stupid, 
 and merely glanced through her lessons. French fascinated 
 her, and as Madame assumed a distinctly hostile attitude 
 towards her pupils, and taught them with the conviction 
 that everything she said passed in one ear and out the 
 other, Rita studied hard and even induced the good-natured 
 Marian to talk French with her while they dressed in the 
 morning. 
 
 At Thanksgiving, she and Janet spent their vacation with 
 Marian's family, outside of Boston. The Baileys were a 
 large, untidy family, who were always intensely amused at 
 something or other. Rita immediately became " Carrot- 
 top " to the three boys, and did not mind in the least be- 
 cause they were so nice about it. Occasionally Mr. Bailey, 
 a small fat man with a pink face, addressing Rita, would 
 say " Carrot I mean, Rita ", and the entire family would 
 burst out laughing. Mr. and Mrs. Bailey regarded each 
 other with tender amusement; Mrs. Bailey called her hus- 
 band "you fat old thing", and when Mr. Bailey wanted 
 to be riotously funny, he called her " Mamma ", with the 
 accent on the last syllable, instead of his customary 
 " Mother ". 
 
 Rita decided that they were more or less vulgar and 
 quite middle-class, but that she loved them. On Thanks- 
 giving Day; relatives poured in all morning, and when one
 
 PROLOGUE 55 
 
 o'clock arrived, Mr. Bailey sat at one end of the long 
 table they had put in five extra leaves carving the largest 
 turkey Rita had ever seen, and Grandpop Bailey sat at the 
 other end, carving a huge goose. In between were bowls 
 of vegetables and cranberry sauce, with large spoons 
 sticking up, like shovels in sandpails at the sea- 
 shore. 
 
 Rita liked the Baileys, and realized that they were happy, 
 that they had found what they sought. But it solved no 
 problem for her. She could never bear to be the untidy 
 mother of a large, untidy family. Although she saw every- 
 thing in relation to herself, it did not affect her judgment 
 or affections. 
 
 She visited Janet at Christmas she decided that it would 
 be pleasanter than Christmas at home and wondered 
 whether perhaps the Crosbys would answer her question. 
 Janet, like herself, was an only child, and Mrs. Crosby, like 
 her mother, was beautiful. But there was a difference; 
 Rita decided that Mrs. Crosby would like more children, if 
 she could afford it, that she was primarily a mother. The 
 Crosbys lived in an apartment that was not large enough 
 for them; it was prettily furnished, but Rita realized that 
 Mrs. Crosby hated the bright pieces of Chinese embroidery, 
 and Spanish shawls, because they hid worn spots on the 
 furniture. Mr. Crosby was handsome, and Rita instantly 
 disliked him; then realized suddenly that the things she 
 disliked in him were the same traits she liked in his daugh- 
 ter. He was versatile, as was Janet, and it was his versa- 
 tility, his overabundance of talents that kept the family poor. 
 He was clever and charming; sometimes when he made
 
 56 PROLOGUE 
 
 some particularly brilliant remark, his wife smiled sadly, 
 Rita thought he was probably unfaithful to her. 
 
 They both adored Janet; Mr. Crosby, because she was his 
 own daughter, impractical, gay, enthusiastic; Mrs. Crosby, 
 Rita decided, adored her because she was young and lovely. 
 She hoped breathlessly that Janet would make a good 
 marriage, and find all the things in life that she had only 
 tasted, or missed altogether. 
 
 Rita wondered, as she and Janet rode back to school on 
 the train, whether anywhere there were married people whom 
 she could envy, could copy. Were people never happy? 
 Of course there were Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick ; but Rita 
 and Aunt Helen had few interests in common; Rita did not 
 plan to give up her life to the adoration and care of a hus- 
 band and children. 
 
 She had not seen any of her cousins since the winter 
 before. At first she and Donald had corresponded rather 
 regularly, and Donald was put on the list, signed by her 
 mother, of males from whom she might receive letters at 
 school. But as the months went by, their letters lagged. 
 Her mother forwarded her a letter from Aunt Helen, which 
 said that Donald had entered a preparatory school, and 
 enclosed a picture of him in long trousers. Rita realized 
 she would have to make friends with him all over 
 again. 
 
 The school year passed, and in the spring her mother 
 gasped at the tall daughter who had been returned to her, 
 and shipped her off to a girls' camp. It was at the sea- 
 shore, and Rita swam and played tennis, rode horseback and 
 went on hikes, and came back to her mother in the fall,
 
 PROLOGUE 57 
 
 tanned and freckled, with muscles in her arms that made 
 Lilias wince. 
 
 The winters of 1913 and 1914 were spent at the school. 
 Janet had her hair up and had been kissed twice; Marian 
 was as fat as ever, and as laughing. Rita had changed 
 little; she was bothered by the same doubts and troubles. 
 Janet seemed to have solved them. She planned evening 
 gowns for the coming summer and talked of boys. Letters 
 in straggling boyish hands were smuggled in to her; the 
 chambermaid was bribed to take the answers to the post- 
 office. 
 
 Rita looked on all this with no particular scorn, and no 
 particular interest. 
 
 IV 
 
 Rita hurried up the stairs to Marian's room, and found 
 three other girls besides Janet sitting about on the floor. 
 Marian's room was large, with photographs of the Bailey 
 family and friends hung on the walls, and piles of huge, 
 cretonne-covered cushions. Marian had not " gone in for " 
 the aesthetic wave that had swept the school, and as a 
 result, although the girls preferred artistically the simple 
 chastity of their own cell-like chambers, they spent most of 
 their time in comfort with Marian. 
 
 Leslie Hartman, a thin, sallow girl whom Rita did not 
 like, was talking; Janet sat at her right, and Francesca 
 Woodward, an older girl, on her left; Marian and Polly 
 Fisher completed the circle. They were listening to Leslie, 
 and Rita stood, hesitating in the doorway; Leslie was tell-
 
 5 8 PROLOGUE 
 
 ing a story, and it was not a nice story. " Come on in," 
 Marian called, and Leslie went on with the story. 
 
 Rita's cheeks were flaming when she had finished. " I 
 should think you'd be ashamed of yourself, Leslie Hart- 
 man! " she said indignantly. "We're too old to act like 
 nasty little children writing things with chalk on walls. 
 That's just what you are a bunch of horrid little 
 children." 
 
 Janet looked up, startled. 
 
 " I think Rita's right," Fran Woodward said. " Of course 
 all kids go through a disgusting age, but we ought to be 
 out of it. It's not very nice, Leslie." 
 
 " Little prig! " Leslie said scornfully. 
 
 " I'd rather be a prig than a pig! " Rita said. " And I'm 
 not a prig. It's just " 
 
 " You're not a very good person to be getting moral," 
 Leslie said unpleasantly. 
 
 " What do you mean? " 
 
 The girl smiled. " Of course, Rita, everyone who knows 
 your mother knows " Her smile died, as Rita faced her. 
 
 " Are you going on? " Rita asked quietly, her face grown 
 white. The other girls stared at them; Rita's hands were 
 clenched. " Leslie Hartman, if you ever speak to me again 
 as long as you live, Pll kill you. And if I ever hear you 
 say anything about my mother, or I ever hear of your hav- 
 ing said anything about my mother, I'll kill you. I'm going 
 to stay here in Marian's room, and I don't intend to stay 
 in the same room with you. You'd better go out." 
 
 They looked at each other steadily. " Marian, are you 
 going to put me out of your room? " Leslie asked.
 
 PROLOGUE 59 
 
 " I'm afraid so," Marian said uncertainly. 
 
 "Are the rest of you going to stay here after the way 
 I've been treated? " 
 
 " I am," Fran Woodward said cheerfully. 
 
 " So'm I," said Janet. 
 
 Polly Fisher nodded breathlessly. 
 
 " Are you going? " Rita asked, holding open the door. 
 Leslie stood for a moment, looking around her, before she 
 went out. The girls were quiet, as Rita crossed the room 
 and sat down on one of the cushions. " Well, wasn't that 
 math exam awful? " Rita asked. " Does anyone think 
 they possibly passed? " 
 
 They began to talk hurriedly, everyone anxious to say 
 something. Rita was trembling with anger, and it was 
 difficult for her to stay and talk; in about half an hour she 
 got up. " I've got to study," she said. Janet kissed her 
 good-bye, and then Marian kissed her; Fran Woodward 
 followed her out into the hall. 
 
 " May I come up to your room with you, Rita? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Rita hesitated. " Come along," she said. 
 
 She had never known Fran Woodward well ; she was one 
 of the older girls, and it was only in the last few months 
 that she had seen anything of her at all. 
 
 " You were splendid, Rita," she said. " That little Hart- 
 man girl needed a beating up. I guess you scared her all 
 right. Even that little Fisher kid, who's had an awful crush 
 on her, wouldn't stand up for her." 
 
 " Don't let's talk about it," said Rita. 
 
 " Women are such cats," Fran said, sitting down on the
 
 60 PROLOGUE 
 
 edge of Rita's bed. "O Lord, Rita, I don't believe I've 
 ever really liked a woman in my life." 
 
 " I don't know that I have," said Rita. She smiled at 
 Fran, conscious suddenly that she liked her. 
 
 That was the beginning of their friendship; after that, 
 they talked of many things together. Fran's mother was 
 dead; she was the daughter of a painter who lived in New 
 York, and who was quite too young to have a tall daughter 
 around him. So Fran, even more than Rita, had been sent 
 from one school to another. 
 
 " I'm eighteen, Rita," Fran said. " I'm not going to 
 stand it much longer. But everyone I can marry, I don't 
 want to. I'm going on the stage." 
 
 " But isn't it pretty hard? " asked Rita. " I mean don't 
 you have to know people with influence pretty well? " 
 
 " You can get to know 'em pretty well," Fran said darkly. 
 " Better than you like, I guess." 
 
 They looked at each other steadily for a moment, and 
 Rita felt flattered because she understood what Fran meant. 
 She felt suddenly sophisticated, and more of a woman than 
 the other girls at the school. She did like Fran Wood- 
 ward. 
 
 The hardness of her mother and father had left no impres- 
 sion on Rita; after all, they were older people, and people 
 who had made failures of life. But Fran was young, just 
 enough older than she to command respect, and her cynicism 
 sunk deep in Rita's consciousness. Rita's mind was in such 
 a state of uncertainty and unrest that she was ready to 
 accept any point of view of life, so long as it was well denned. 
 She was as ready to hate life as to love it, to have confidence
 
 PROLOGUE 61 
 
 as well as distrust. The two girls read together, discussed 
 life and people. 
 
 " Well, we've formed our philosophy," Fran said one 
 day. " We're not going to let life hurt us as it does other 
 people. What will be, will be " 
 
 " Let it be," said Rita solemnly. 
 
 " Follow your emotions," said Fran it was almost a 
 chant. 
 
 " Be happy remember that it's selfish to be unselfish." 
 
 " And be kind," concluded Fran. 
 
 They smiled at each other. Their conversation in those 
 days was sprinkled with Oscar Wilde the only way to be 
 rid of a temptation is to yield to it / hate nature; she's so 
 uncomfortable who wants to be consistent the art of 
 lying . . . 
 
 The school year ended, and Fran and Rita stood side by 
 side on the station platform, a little apart from the other 
 girls. Fran's dark hair was hidden beneath a feather hat; 
 her suit was exquisite, her gloves spotless and slim. Rita 
 felt that she was too much of a schoolgirl in her belted 
 Norfolk jacket, her sailor hat. 
 
 " You're going straight to New York, Fran? " 
 
 " Yes. I'm going to drop in to see Father and tell him 
 that he can give me the money he's been spending on me 
 as an allowance until I can support myself. Lord knows, 
 he's rich enough he might as well give it to me as to some 
 other woman." 
 
 Rita nodded wisely. " I'll be in New York this winter, 
 too," she said. " Oh, Fran, you won't forget me? " 
 
 " Rather not."
 
 62 PROLOGUE 
 
 "And when you're a beautiful actress and I'm a poor 
 newspaper lady, you'll give me your best interviews? " 
 
 " Rather." 
 
 The train snorted up the track, and they got on. They 
 talked feverishly until Fran got off to change to the New 
 York train. 
 
 " Good-bye, Fran." 
 
 " Good-bye." 
 
 They kissed each other affectionately. " You will write 
 me?" 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Rita leaned out the window, and watched until the spot 
 of color that was Fran's hat was lost in the distance. 
 
 V 
 
 June 20th, 1914. 
 DEAR DONALD: 
 
 It's such a long time since I've written to you that I 
 feel almost as if I was writing another person. Aunt Helen 
 sent a picture of you to Mother, and oh, how you've grown! 
 You're really a man now, aren't you? I've grown a good 
 bit, but I think it's nicer, almost, to be a little girl. I'm 
 so sort of puzzled about everything, and discontented. I 
 guess in all my life the happiest time was the winter with 
 your family in Boston. Remember how you taught me to 
 skate? And to ride a bicycle? 
 
 I've been away at school for three years, and last summer 
 I was at a girls' camp. We rode horseback and played out 
 a lot. I've been reading all the time lately have you? Do 
 you feel awfully puzzled about everything? It seems as
 
 PROLOGUE 63 
 
 though there are so many things I've got to learn, and so 
 little time to learn them. Just think, I'm almost sixteen 
 years old! And you're eighteen 'most nineteen. That's 
 awfully old, isn't it? 
 
 Does it bother you at all growing up? Father calls 
 them mental growing pains, the things I'm going through. 
 He says it's because I'm neither hay nor grass he means 
 I'm neither a little girl nor a grown woman. It's so puz- 
 zling. I'm not a little girl who can play with dolls and things, 
 but I'm not big enough to go to really grown-up dances and 
 get engaged and all that sort of thing. Which seems awfully 
 dull to me, anyway. 
 
 Are you upset, too? I mean do you feel as though you 
 weren't a little boy any longer and yet not a man? Are 
 you worrying about all the things you're going to do when 
 you're grown up? What are you going to do, anyway? 
 Do you still want to be a mechanical engineer? 
 
 I'm asking you an awful lot of questions, but I'd really 
 like to know. You're the only person I've ever talked with 
 very much you do always understand, Donald. And when 
 we were together we were just kids there weren't so 
 many things I wanted to talk about. 
 
 This is only a short letter, but later on I'm going to write 
 you a long one, and tell you all the things I'm thinking. 
 
 Have you ever read " The Book of Carlotta " by Arnold 
 Bennett? It's about a woman, and I think it's probably 
 true of men of course a man wrote it. Carlotta says she 
 always feels like two persons one who does things and says 
 them, and another who sits and watches and laughs at her. 
 Don't you feel that way? Even when you're unhappy?
 
 64 PROLOGUE 
 
 And have you read Oscar Wilde's "Impressions and 
 Opinions " ? They're awfully nice it's all paradox, but all 
 the paradoxes are true, somehow. Of course he's pretty 
 cynical, but then, everyone is who thinks, don't you think? 
 
 You're still taking Greek, aren't you? It's so funny to 
 think that you're in college. Don't you love Greek? It's 
 so much easier than Latin and so much prettier. And isn't 
 Xenophon easy? You can bluff him almost all the time, be- 
 cause he says the same thing so much. I like Homer best 
 they let me double because I like it so. Old Virgil is 
 sort of a bore, I think. When you think that he left word 
 when he died for them to destroy the ^Eneid because it 
 wasn't finished, couldn't you simply kill all those darn 
 students who saved it for us to spend hours translating? 
 
 Do write me soon and answer all my questions. I'm crazy 
 to see you. Give my love to Aunt Helen and Uncle Dick 
 and the twins. 
 
 As ever, 
 
 RITA. 
 
 July 1 2th, 1914. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 Sorry I've been so long answering your letter, but I've 
 been busy Fourth of July and all that. I'm pitcher on 
 our local baseball team here, and maybe we aren't going to 
 wipe up the ground with the Reds. You ought to see one 
 of our games I'll send you some clippings. 
 
 I haven't read those books I don't read much except 
 mechanical books too darn busy. 
 
 There's a great show running here now Under the
 
 PROLOGUE 65 
 
 Blossoms musical comedy. I've been four times you 
 ought to see it. 
 
 Pete had a scrap the other day and has a black eye as big 
 as an automobile lamp. Ruthie's no good fresh as she 
 can be. 
 
 Family all sends love. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 VI 
 
 Rita was sixteen years old. She sat before the mirror 
 in her room and looked at her reflection steadily. Sixteen 
 years old, tall, rather pretty, and absolutely useless to 
 everyone! She was bored, so bored that she wanted to cry 
 aloud, to throw something on the floor with all her strength. 
 She had nothing to do. She had read all the books in her 
 room, all that interested her and some that did not in the 
 library downstairs. She hated sewing and she had no interest 
 in learning to cook or run a house. And what else was 
 there in the world? She could swim and play tennis and 
 walk, but that left long, dull evenings, and empty rainy 
 days. She wondered why her mother was not more dis- 
 contented ; Lilias did nothing, but she was always busy. Her 
 father, of course, had his work which kept him occupied the 
 greater part of the time, and left him just enough leisure to 
 swim a little, walk, read the papers and magazines, an 
 occasional book. 
 
 But she had nothing absolutely nothing. It had been 
 the same for almost three years now. Rita reached towards 
 the box on her dressing table and took out a cigarette, lighted
 
 66 PROLOGUE 
 
 it. Her mother would probably not like her to smoke, but 
 after all, she was not interested enough to know whether she 
 smoked or not. She could have taken drugs, for all Lilias 
 or her father would have noticed. 
 
 What was there in life that kept people from committing 
 suicide? Did they hope and hope and expect something 
 until they had responsibilities and the habit of life? Or 
 did something come, something interesting and worth while, 
 eventually? Rita did not know and she did not know whom 
 to ask. 
 
 It was easy enough for her to become interested in things, 
 but she had not found anything that could hold her interest. 
 There were Sonia and Malcolm Heath who often came to 
 the house. Sonia Heath was a small, intense person, who 
 had come to America from Russia when she was a little 
 girl. 
 
 " You're going to college? " she asked Rita. 
 
 " I guess so." 
 
 " Oh, you should! And then when you finish, Rita, you 
 ought to get into the labor fight. Not from the outside 
 looking in, as most educated people do. You ought to go to 
 work in a laundry or a cheap restaurant and join your 
 union." 
 
 Rita had listened to her while she told of wrongs and 
 injustices, dramatizing them, making them colorful and 
 thrilling. That night she wrote page after page of enthu- 
 siastic plans in her diary. She wanted to go out and kill a 
 capitalist. 
 
 But in the morning her enthusiasm had left her. She 
 envied Sonia and Malcolm; she thought it would be wonder-
 
 PROLOGUE 67 
 
 ful to be interested in the wrongs of the working classes. 
 But her head was too full of Rita Moreland for her to think 
 of anything else. 
 
 She wrote in her diary, pages of discontent and unhappi- 
 ness. Bobby whistled outside in the yard, and she went 
 to the window. 
 
 " Coming swimming? " 
 
 " All right." She might as well as not. Bobby had 
 grown from the boy who had been her beau, to a tall, lanky 
 youth whom Rita did not particularly like, except to swim 
 with, or play an occasional game of tennis. Still, she could 
 forget about herself for a while. 
 
 It was pleasant to slip into the lake, and forget about 
 everything except your arms flashing in the water, and 
 your body shooting through it. Rita burrowed her face in 
 the water, and turned a pretty somersault. Again . . . 
 This was really fun. 
 
 " Race you to the float, Bob! " 
 
 She reached it first, and climbed up, shaking the water 
 from her. But finally she grew tired of swimming, and went 
 up the path to the house. 
 
 " Play tennis after? " 
 
 " Don't believe so, Bobby." She was tired of tennis, and 
 particularly of tennis with Bobby. She knew by heart 
 every movement that he would make, just when he would 
 say " Hole in my racket " or " I keep forgetting this isn't 
 a bat pretty good chance for a home run, Rita." 
 
 When she came down into the living-room, her red hair 
 still moist about her forehead, her mother looked up lan- 
 guidly and smiled.
 
 68 PROLOGUE 
 
 " You're very attractive," she said. " That's the dress 
 you bought when you went to town, isn't it? Turn around 
 and let me see you." 
 
 Rita turned slowly, and caught her reflection in the mirror 
 at the opposite end of the living-room. She was tall and 
 slender, with rounded arms and breasts. Her dress was 
 green like her eyes, and tied about her waist with narrow 
 ribbons of different colors that fluttered over her skirt. She 
 had fastened her wavy, red hair at her neck with a bow of 
 three ribbons, yellow, lavender, and green. She had been 
 " strange looking ", as a little girl, rather than pretty, but 
 now she had grown to her long legs ; as her face had become 
 more full, her eyebrows seemed less thick and black. 
 
 " You have an air," Lilias said. " What made you think 
 of tying your hair that way? " 
 
 Rita shrugged her shoulders. 
 
 " You're almost old enough to do it up. It will be pretty 
 on top of your head." 
 
 Rita smiled at her mother. " Don't want to do it 
 up." 
 
 " You're a strange girl," said Lilias. " When I was your 
 age, I was crazy to be grown-up and have beaux." 
 
 " May be that's why I'm not," said Rita carelessly. "I've 
 seen enough of men." 
 
 She did not believe that; she had not seen anywhere near 
 as much of men as she wanted, but she would not admit that 
 to her mother. But she did not want beaux, as her mother 
 imagined them; insipid youths who talked incessantly of 
 themselves, and tried to hold your hand. Sometimes they 
 asked if they could kiss you. Then Rita always shrugged
 
 PROLOGUE 69 
 
 her shoulders, and said, " It doesn't sound particularly 
 interesting, but if it will make you feel any better " They 
 blushed then, and did not speak of kissing again, Rita 
 wanted a man who knew how to make love, when she had 
 a beau at all. She didn't want anyone to experiment with 
 her. Kisses that landed near her chin or eyebrow annoyed 
 her ; she preferred to remain unkissed. And yet she wanted 
 very much to have a man love her. 
 
 " Well, I'm glad that you care enough to look decent, 
 anyway," her mother said. " Do you remember Estelle and 
 Roy Warren? I have a letter from them here. They're 
 coming down to visit us." 
 
 " That'll be nice it's frightfully dull here." Rita walked 
 about the room aimlessly. " Lord, I'm bored. Don't you 
 get sick of everything, Mother? " 
 
 Lilias Moreland smiled. " Yes," she said. " But what's 
 the use? " 
 
 " None, I guess." Rita went out on the piazza, and 
 down the path to the lake. Bobby, and a boy in white 
 flannel trousers and a belted blue coat were tying their boat 
 to the dock. 
 
 " We were just coming over to see you," said Bobby. 
 " I want you to meet Arthur Morse, Rita." 
 
 Rita held out her hand and looked at the young man. 
 He was short and fair, with twinkling blue eyes and a 
 freckled nose. She decided rather quickly that she liked 
 him. 
 
 " We wondered if you'd go to the movies with us to- 
 night? " 
 
 " Yes, I'd like to," Rita said. It might be amusing, and
 
 70 PROLOGUE 
 
 she was so desperately bored that even seventeen-year-old 
 Bobby and his friend were better than sitting alone in the 
 living-room and hating everything. 
 
 " I'm awfully hot," Arthur Morse said. " Can't we row 
 over to that ice-cream pavillion and get something to 
 drink? " 
 
 Rita stepped daintily into the boat and chattered with 
 the new boy while Bobby rowed. He was more easy to talk 
 with than the average youth she met, and Rita found her- 
 self actually becoming interested in what he was saying. 
 The pavillion was attractive, jutting out over the lake; 
 there were fresh flowers on each table, and the band had 
 begun to play softly. 
 
 " Will you dance? " Arthur Morse asked. He held her 
 firmly as they started; he was just Rita's height, and his 
 face was very close to hers; it was comfortable to feel an 
 arm about her. " You certainly can dance, Miss More- 
 land." 
 
 " You're not bad yourself," Rita said, smiling. He swung 
 her about easily, and showed quite a bit of imagination with 
 his feet. Most boys of his age counted softly to themselves 
 as they danced. 
 
 When finally they rowed Rita back to her dock, Arthur 
 Morse helped her tenderly out of the boat, let his hand rest 
 on hers a moment longer than was necessary. Rita looked 
 up at him in amusement, and found, to her delight, that he 
 was grinning, too. 
 
 The moving picture hall that night was hot and stuffy; 
 mosquitoes buzzed in through the windows, and the woman 
 at the piano pounded mechanically. Rita smiled at Bobby,
 
 PROLOGUE 71 
 
 and his hand crept towards hers tentatively, clutched it. She 
 laughed softly, because Arthur Morse had taken her other 
 hand some time before. She wondered whether she was 
 flirting. She thought suddenly how furious they would be, if 
 they knew that both her hands were being tenderly patted. 
 Her nose itched and she wanted to scratch it; the whole 
 affair was ridiculous and silly. Finally, with a deft pat 
 for each masculine hand, she folded her own in her lap and 
 gazed thoughtfully at the screen. 
 
 They rowed back across the lake silently; the oars dripped 
 with wet moonlight as they cut silently through the water. 
 
 " I'll take Miss Moreland up to the house," said Arthur 
 Morse. " Don't let the boat drift away, Bob." 
 
 Yes, he was older than Bobby, Rita reflected, as she held 
 out her hand. " Good-night, Bobby, I've had a nice time." 
 
 Arthur Morse took firm hold of her elbow, and guided her 
 up the path. At the foot of the steps, his arm tightened 
 on hers and he leaned over quickly and kissed her. It was 
 a short kiss, but his lips were warm, and Rita noticed with 
 amusement that his aim was pretty good. She looked at 
 him thoughtfully. 
 
 " You don't mind? " he whispered. 
 
 " Should I? " Rita asked. " I suppose so. No, I didn't 
 mind. Good-night." 
 
 " Good-nightRita." 
 
 As she hurried up the steps into the house, she laughed. 
 This, then, was the sort of thing that most boys and girls 
 of her age were indulging in. They probably found it 
 interesting and absorbing or thought they did, which came 
 to the same end.
 
 72 PROLOGUE 
 
 "Ah, Mother," Rita said, as she came into the living- 
 room, " I was kissed! " 
 
 " Not really! " her mother said, smiling at her. " On 
 which ear? " 
 
 Rita sat down beside her. " Pretty squarely on the 
 mouth," she said. " Should I have been thrilled? " 
 
 Lilias looked at her with amusement. " Funny child, 
 how do I know? You weren't? " 
 
 " Not a bit. Interested, rather." Rita took out a pack 
 of cards from the wooden box in the center of the table, 
 and laid out Canfield. She played the cards slowly. " Guess 
 111 go to bed." She kissed Lilias, and went up the stairs.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 THE dark clouds that had hung low in the sky throughout 
 the morning were blown away by the wind from the lake; 
 the dust disappeared from the trees as if the expected rain 
 had fallen and washed them. The sky deepened to the 
 blue that it attains only in late summer, a live, throbbing 
 color. 
 
 Rita sat on the piazza with her mother, and decided 
 regretfully that it was impossible to be as gloomy as she 
 felt she should be. It was impossible, with the wind blowing 
 her skirt about her ankles, catching her hair, and tossing 
 it in a hundred different ways, whipping the color into her 
 cheeks. 
 
 " I think if I lived in a country where the weather was 
 always like this, I'd always be cheerful," she said. 
 
 Lilias smiled, and leaned forward to catch a newspaper 
 that the wind was carrying off the piazza. " Perhaps it's 
 because it keeps you so active," she said. " You look very 
 pretty, Rita." 
 
 " I'm glad." At the foot of the hill, the wind was diving 
 down into the lake, and pretending it was a tide, pushing 
 rolls of water towards the shore to break in miniature 
 waves. " There's the train, Mother." 
 
 Beyond the lake, rising behind the hills, was a ribbon of 
 
 73
 
 74 PROLOGUE 
 
 gray smoke, trailing the hidden train. The wind seemed to 
 see it, too, for it turned about and shattered the ribbon into 
 a gray blur against the sky. 
 
 " Is Alfred meeting them? " 
 
 " Yes. They ought to be here in about ten minutes." 
 
 Faintly, from behind the hills, they heard the whistle 
 of the engine; for a moment the smoke towered in one spot 
 before it wove on northwards. The long gray touring car 
 flashed between the trees on the opposite shore of the lake, 
 before it turned along the shore drive. 
 
 " Here they are! " The car shot up the driveway 
 silently. 
 
 " Pretty good," Rita said. " He came up on first." 
 
 Estelle and Roy Warren stepped out and came up the 
 steps of the piazza. Estelle was pretty in a matronly sort 
 of way, overdressed, over-rouged. Her hair was carefully 
 marcelled, her body carefully corseted; she looked as 
 though she had been poured into a mold, and shaken out 
 in perfect form. Her husband looked younger; a slender 
 man, with fair hair and sunburnt blue eyes, informal and 
 casual in dress. 
 
 " You might show Roy around while I take Estelle to her 
 room," Lilias suggested. They went into the house together, 
 and Rita turned, smiling, towards Roy Warren. 
 
 " What will you see? " she asked. " We have a lake, a 
 tennis court, three flower gardens, a garage, a " 
 
 "Heavens!" he interrupted. "An embarrassment of 
 riches. Supposing you let me sit here on the piazza, and 
 look at the view. I haven't seen a view for so long by 
 the way, could I have a glass of ice- water? "
 
 PROLOGUE 75 
 
 " Wouldn't you rather have a highball? " Rita asked. He 
 smiled gratefully, and she went into the dining-room. It 
 was rather pleasant to get the whiskey bottle and ice-water, 
 to take a glass from the closet, and put them on a tray for 
 this man. She felt a satisfying sense of womanliness as 
 she set the tray on the wicker table between them, poured 
 out his whiskey. 
 
 " You won't join me? " 
 
 Rita looked at him in amusement. Men were nice. 
 " Heavens, no. Didn't you know that I was a child, Mr. 
 Warren? " 
 
 " So I've been told, Miss Moreland. But parents always 
 think that. And there are none about." He held his glass 
 towards her gravely, and Rita sipped it. 
 
 " You ply me with drink," she said. 
 
 " I assure you my intentions are not honorable," he said, 
 still smiling. 
 
 " But you mustn't call me Miss Moreland," Rita said, 
 relapsing into a little girl. " My, how Father would tease! 
 I'm not so sure that Mother would like it makes her feel 
 old, you know." 
 
 He laughed. " Then it must be Roy. I'm not going 
 to feel any more antiquated than I have to, Rita." 
 
 " All right, Roy." Rita leaned back in her chair and 
 looked at him. " I'm glad you people have come," she 
 said. " It's been most awfully dull here." 
 
 Webster Moreland came up the path and held out his 
 hand to Roy. " Glad to see you. Estelle's here, of 
 course? " 
 
 " Upstairs with Lilias."
 
 7 6 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Oh." Rita decided quickly that her father did not like 
 Mrs. Warren. " Been working hard? " 
 
 "Yep. You?" 
 
 " Lord, yes," Webster Moreland answered. " What with 
 a wife and a growing daughter " 
 
 Rita smiled tenderly at him; it was nice to see her father 
 like someone. He could be as friendly and pleasant as 
 anyone else. He patted her hand and turned to Roy. 
 
 " Hasn't she grown, though? " 
 
 " She was a mere babe in arms the last time I saw her," 
 Roy answered. He looked at her, too, and Rita did not 
 flush beneath his gaze; it was friendly and pleasant, with 
 much the same mingling of interest and curiosity that had 
 been in Donald's eyes when they first met. 
 
 Fran was right; men were the only people in the world. 
 You never had to wonder what they were thinking, or if 
 they really meant what they said. With all their faults 
 and both she and Fran conceded that they had a great 
 many they were nicer than women. If Roy had been a 
 woman, he would have felt obliged to plunge into stories of 
 what a cunning baby she had been. As it was, he appeared 
 much more interested in what a charming girl she had grown 
 to be. 
 
 Estelle and Lilias came out on the piazza, arm in arm. 
 
 " You've grown like a weed, Rita," Estelle said, sitting 
 down in one of the low wicker chairs. " My, you'll be hav- 
 ing your hair up soon, won't you? " 
 
 Rita smiled. 
 
 "And beaux and everything. Or does she have beaux 
 now, Lilias? "
 
 PROLOGUE 77 
 
 " She conceals 'em if she does," her mother answered. 
 " She is perfectly brutal to the love-sick swains that come 
 around down here. Says she doesn't like men." 
 
 " I said I didn't like young men, Mother," Rita corrected. 
 
 " What's the age limit? " asked Estelle. " I've got to 
 know whether my husband is safe." 
 
 Rita was annoyed at the conversation. " How old are 
 you, Roy? " she asked, turning towards him. She saw her 
 mother's eyebrows shoot up. 
 
 " Thirty-one," he answered, smiling. " Don't look so 
 horrified, Lilias I asked her to call me Roy." 
 
 " Age limit is thirty," Rita said quietly. " After thirty 
 they're all right." 
 
 " She's her mother's own daughter," Estelle said, laughing, 
 but she did not seem amused wholly. 
 
 Rita wanted to say that her mother had no age limit, 
 but there was no use in being too unpleasant, even though 
 she was irritated. That was another reason why she hated 
 women; they always inspired her to say the most unkind 
 things. She grinned at Roy, and leaned back still farther 
 in her chair. 
 
 " Well, who's going to play tennis with me? " Roy asked 
 abruptly. " I feel like a new man already. I don't know 
 whether it's the highball that Rita so charmingly brought 
 me, or the country air." 
 
 " I don't play," said Lilias. " Estelle? " 
 
 " In these corsets? Lord, no. Does Web play? " 
 
 " I haven't for some time," Webster Moreland said. 
 " Swimming and walking are about the only exercise I get. 
 But Rita's a shark."
 
 78 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Will you play, Rita? " 
 
 Rita nodded. " I'll have to change my dress, but it'll 
 take only a minute. No, really it's no trouble." She re- 
 appeared in a few moments; lifted the rackets and balls 
 from the chest in the living-room. 
 
 For the first time in her experience, Rita found most of 
 the entertaining of a man guest left in her hands. Roy 
 Warren neither danced nor played bridge; he was spending 
 his short vacation in Larchborough, and he wanted all the 
 outdoor exercise he could cram into three weeks. So he and 
 Rita swam and played tennis, walked and went fishing. 
 
 In the evening, he played chess with her father, while 
 Rita watched; sometimes the three of them would leave 
 Lilias and Estelle to their conversation of dresses and men, 
 and sit out on the piazza and talk of politics and books. In 
 the time the Warrens were at Larchborough, Rita came to 
 know her father better than she had ever known him before. 
 He liked Roy, and Rita discovered that he could be drawn 
 out, be made to talk and listen. He had read a great deal ; 
 he knew what was happening in the world. For the most 
 part, Rita listened to them, leaning back in her chair, watch- 
 ing the glow of her father's cigar and the trailing smoke 
 from Roy's pipe. Once she asked for a cigarette, and her 
 father gave it to her with amusement, went on talking with- 
 out noticing her. After that she used to sit quietly and 
 smoke, while the sky grew darker. Sometimes she asked 
 questions, and her father or Roy answered them as though 
 she were a grown woman; she dared to disagree with them 
 and argue. She had never been quite so happy in her life. 
 
 There remained only a week of the Warrens' visit, and
 
 PROLOGUE 79 
 
 Roy and Rita were walking briskly along the road that 
 skirted the lake. It was late summer, and the trees were at 
 their heaviest, sagging with hot green foliage; the road was 
 parched and dusty, and the grass at the edge of the street 
 was streaked with clay. 
 
 " Lord, this is the sort of weather that rolls any super- 
 fluous fat off you," Roy said. " I ought to make Estelle 
 walk except that she'd curl up and die at the thought of 
 it." He wiped his wet forehead with his handkerchief. 
 
 " I rather like it," said Rita. " There's a bunch of pine 
 trees a little farther on that go down to the lake. We might 
 sit down and rest for a while." 
 
 They walked across the crackling pine needles to the edge 
 of the water, and sat down, leaning against tree trunks. 
 There was a light breeze from the lake; the smell of the 
 pines cleared the air and made it seem cooler. Roy leaned 
 over and patted Rita's hand. " Nice kid," he said. Rita 
 looked at him ; his face was hot and dirty ; his khaki trousers 
 were streaked with dust. He lighted his pipe and leaned 
 back peacefully. His sleeves were rolled up, and his soft 
 shirt was open over his brown throat; Rita felt a sudden 
 tenderness towards him, a pity that he was married to 
 Estelle. He was not her sort of person; Estelle was so 
 wholly artificial and stupid. Her mother was different; 
 Lilias, in a way, was artificial, but she was warm, alive. 
 Rita respected her mother, as she thought of the two women ; 
 her mother was not perfect she was far from perfect but 
 her emotions were all honest, sincere. 
 
 She sighed; the whole world about her was fragrant and 
 pleasant; the smell of Roy's pipe, the pines, the earth and
 
 8o PROLOGUE 
 
 sunshine, the dust, even their hot bodies. She thought of 
 Wells The New Macchiavell " the jolly smell of things ". 
 And Mr. Polly who whistled, although it was singing he 
 meant. Perhaps she was growing up; perhaps after three 
 years, relief and a kind permanency were coming; she was 
 happier than she had been since the winter with Aunt Helen. 
 
 " Pretty thoughtful," said Roy. 
 
 " Yes. And happy, Roy." 
 
 He leaned against the tree trunk and blew out wavering 
 rings of smoke. " What are you going to do next winter, 
 Rita? " he asked. " School? " 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " Oh, yes, school, I suppose. 
 Mother has shipped me off to boarding-schools these last 
 few years I didn't learn much, of course. I'm thinking of 
 getting a tutor this winter and really studying preparing 
 for college." 
 
 " You want to go to college? " 
 
 " I don't know, Roy. Not really. I'm too young to 
 work I don't know what I want. I it's difficult being 
 young." 
 
 " Yes. How old are you, Rita? " 
 
 " Sixteen." He did not answer, and Rita looked out at 
 the lake. Some of the old, unsettled feeling came back; 
 sixteen years old . . " I hate to talk about myself," she 
 said, and then smiled in answer to his grin. " Of course I 
 don't I love it. But, oh, I feel so stupid and useless when 
 I talk about me. I don't know anything and I don't show 
 any signs of learning. I don't know what I want in life. 
 I don't want to marry. I've seen " She broke off 
 abruptly.
 
 PROLOGUE 81 
 
 " I suppose so," Roy said. They sat quietly again for 
 a moment. 
 
 " It won't be bad for you to be in New York," he said 
 at last. " It's a big city, and filled with about every idea 
 in the world. I think you'll like it. It's a good place to 
 find yourself. Are you interested in anything in par- 
 ticular? " 
 
 " Writing, I guess. I don't know. I write abominably. 
 I like to read stuff and criticize it I'd like to be an editor. 
 But there's little chance of that." 
 
 " I think there's chance for anything, when you're young. 
 Youth oh, but you're tired to death of hearing people talk 
 about youth. It's hideous, of course, while you've got it." 
 
 " Yes," said Rita. " But I think I may like it, Roy- 
 being young as soon as I'm settled a little. You're nice 
 to talk with me." 
 
 " Rot." 
 
 They were quiet again; the evening was settling down; 
 it was as though dusk had caught in the tree tops and then 
 fallen about them suddenly. Rita jumped to her feet. 
 
 " We've got to go back or we'll be late for dinner," she 
 said. She turned toward the road, and Roy joined her. 
 They walked home silently. 
 
 They were late in reaching the house, and Lilias greeted 
 them impatiently. " Hurry and get dressed, Rita," she 
 said. " You ought not to stay out so long. Dinner is 
 ready. Didn't either you or Roy take a watch? " 
 
 " I'm sorry," he said. He followed Rita upstairs. 
 
 Rita dressed quickly, and came downstairs a few minutes 
 after Roy.
 
 82 PROLOGUE 
 
 "We had a nice walk," Rita said, as she sat down be- 
 tween Roy and her father. 
 
 " Evidently," Lilias said. " You almost forgot to come 
 home." 
 
 Rita looked up at her mother wearily. After dinner her 
 father brought out the chess-board, and Rita sat beside 
 them. When the game was finally finished, her father and 
 Roy rose to go out on the piazza. 
 
 " Rita, can't you leave the men alone a minute? " her 
 mother asked, as Rita stood up to follow them. 
 
 Rita flushed. 
 
 " Coming, Rita? " her father called. 
 
 Rita wavered uncertainly. " I'm tired," she called back. 
 " I'm going to bed." 
 
 " Good-night, then, dear," said Estelle. 
 
 " Good-night." Rita looked at her mother angrily for 
 a moment before she went upstairs. She undressed and 
 lighted the reading lamp by her bed, paused for a while 
 before her book-case. Then she chose " Wuthering 
 Heights"; and settled herself comfortably against the pil- 
 lows. 
 
 The next day was dark and rainy, and the day that fol- 
 lowed was broken by thunder showers. The third day 
 broke, shadowed by a gray sky, with swollen clouds that 
 opened spasmodically to let down sheets of rain. The five 
 people in the house were restless; Estelle and Lilias were 
 irritable; Webster Moreland was gloomy. Roy read 
 steadily; Rita did not care to talk with him under the eyes 
 of her mother. He was anxious to be out for the last days 
 of his vacation; his tan was paling within the house.
 
 PROLOGUE 83 
 
 " Oh, Lord, I can't stand this! " Rita said indignantly, 
 turning from the window where she had been standing. 
 " I'm going out." 
 
 " I'm going, too," Roy said quickly. 
 
 They put on sweaters and stepped out into the rain. The 
 trees were so heavy with moisture that they leaned drunk- 
 enly; the grass was flattened. They walked down the slip- 
 pery path to the lake and stood on the wet sand, watching 
 the dark water swallow the rain drops that fell silently on 
 its surface. From the south came the rumble of thunder, 
 and lightning tore through the sodden sky. 
 
 "It's glorious, though," Rita said. "After that stuffy 
 room don't you love it, Roy? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They stood uncertainly, the rain beating upon their 
 upturned faces. As Rita looked about the lake, she caught 
 sight of a great fish, tossing back and forth in the water 
 at the edge of the shore. 
 
 " Look, Roy! " 
 
 " We'll catch him," Roy said. " Advanced school of 
 fishing come on, Rita." He broke off a long twig, and 
 they raced across the wet sand. The water drew the fish 
 back, tossed him temptingly near again, rolled him over and 
 over, his white belly gleaming. The wind blew in their 
 faces, and they panted breathlessly. 
 
 " I'm going to get him," Rita said defiantly. Her cheeks 
 were flaming, and her green eyes were bright in the gray 
 of the storm. She sat down on a rock and pulled off her 
 shoes and stockings, tucked up her skirts. She waded out 
 and the water of the lake was cool and tingling on her legs.
 
 84 PROLOGUE 
 
 As she leaned over, the wind blew a wave towards the shore, 
 and she was drenched, but she straightened up with the fish 
 clasped to her bosom. " He's dead, I guess. And slippery 
 quick, Roy, I'm going to drop him! " 
 
 Roy stepped into the water, shoes and all, and held out 
 his hands; Rita stumbled towards him and he caught her. 
 
 " Gee, he's a big boy! " Roy said. 
 
 " We'll bring him up to the kitchen." She tucked her 
 wet stockings in her sneakers and they started up the path. 
 Her wet clothes clung to her slim body; her hair was dark, 
 plastered against her face. Through the kitchen they came 
 into the living-room; it was hot and stifling; only the 
 grayness and damp from outside had come in; the excite- 
 ment and glory of the storm did not exist. Rita was still 
 panting. 
 
 " Oh, we caught a perfect whale of a fish! " she said. 
 Roy 
 
 Lilias and Estelle looked up. 
 
 " Go to your room, Rita," her mother said. 
 
 " I guess I am pretty wet and dirty," Rita admitted. 
 " My land, but it was fun, though! You poor people here 
 in the house " 
 
 " Go upstairs, Rita." 
 
 Rita's eyes were still shining as she sat down before her 
 mirror and began to unfasten her wet blouse. It clung to 
 the curves of her breasts, and she looked at it in dismay 
 for a minute; then she shrugged her shoulders after all, 
 it was no more immodest than her one-piece bathing suit. 
 Her mother had seemed annoyed; perhaps it was at that. 
 
 The door of her room opened and Lilias Moreland came
 
 PROLOGUE 85 
 
 in. " Rita, I should think you'd be ashamed of your- 
 self! " 
 
 " Ashamed why, what do you mean? " 
 
 Lilias laughed. " Of course I suppose I shouldn't have 
 come out on the piazza when I did, my dear," she said. 
 " You get such a good view of the lake Estelle remarked 
 on it." 
 
 Rita's hands fell to her lap. " You may as well tell me 
 what you mean, Mother," she said. " I have no idea.", 
 
 " I mean," her mother said, " that you have no business 
 flirting with a married man." 
 
 " Flirting with Mother! " 
 
 Lilias tapped the edge of the dressing-table impatiently. 
 " My dear child, we saw you in his arms." 
 
 "Why, you did not! " Rita said indignantly, and then 
 remembered. " Oh, Roy pulled me out of the water, if 
 that's what you mean." 
 
 " Isn't that putting it rather mildly, Rita? You know 
 you're not a child any more you're a fully developed 
 woman. And as I remember of course I can ask Estelle 
 you were showing quite a bit of bare leg. I don't know 
 what" 
 
 Rita rose to her feet and stared at her mother. " I'm 
 not perfectly sure that I want to take my lessons in morality 
 from you," she said clearly. Lilias flushed. " Of course 
 I know that you can't possibly understand such a thing as 
 friendship between a man and a woman. I don't care to 
 explain it to you. Had you just as soon leave me alone? " 
 
 She locked the door of her room as her mother went out, 
 and turned, leaning against the door.
 
 86 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Rita! " Her mother was calling from the hall. " Rita! 
 Rita, are you listening to me? " 
 
 Rita did not move. 
 
 " Perhaps I did misunderstand, Rita. I wish Rita, are 
 you listening? " Finally Lilias went downstairs and Rita 
 continued undressing slowly, slipped into a negligee. She sat 
 quietly at her dressing-table until Annie came upstairs and 
 knocked at the door. 
 
 " Lunch is ready, Miss Rita." 
 
 " I'm not feeling well, thank you, Annie. I don't care 
 for any." 
 
 She sat on the bed, hardly able to think in her anger. 
 She heard them talking and laughing downstairs; then the 
 sounds of chairs being moved back. She hated women 
 hated them! She crossed to the window-seat and sat, look- 
 ing out. The sun had broken through the clouds and the 
 wet grass glistened. Bobby was waiting on the tennis 
 court, and presently she saw Roy go down. He walked 
 slowly along the path, and the sun caught in his fair hair 
 and turned it to gold ; his shoulders were broad. She turned 
 unhappily from the window. Did Roy think she had flirted 
 with him? He couldn't have thought that she was sure 
 he couldn't have. But Estelle and her mother did ... 
 Oh, she hated women! 
 
 She picked up a book and read a few pages, but she 
 had turned by chance to the love story in it. She threw it 
 aside indignantly and lay down on the bed. Why did 
 they have to spoil her friendship with Roy? Why . . . 
 
 She bit the end of her finger thoughtfully. Perhaps it 
 wasn't going to spoil things. Perhaps . . . She thought of
 
 PROLOGUE 87 
 
 the long talk they had had in the grove by the lake, and 
 how she had leaned lazily against a tree, looking at him. 
 She liked to look at Roy; he had a pleasant face, with 
 friendly eyes and a mouth that smiled. Roy . . . She 
 closed her eyes, and burrowed her face deep in the pillow. 
 
 She must have fallen asleep, for she was roused suddenly 
 by her mother's voice. " Rita, haven't you acted like a 
 child long enough? Will you come downstairs? " 
 
 Rita did not answer until she caught the note of alarm 
 in her mother's voice as she called again. There was no 
 use in having her break open the door. 
 
 " I'm not coming down," she said quietly. 
 
 " It's dinner-time," said Lilias. 
 
 Rita realized suddenly that she was hungry, but she did 
 not answer. Her mother went downstairs. She heard foot- 
 steps; the Warrens and her father were dressing for dinner. 
 Then more footsteps and Annie's voice. 
 
 " Miss Rita, your mother said you didn't want any dinner, 
 but I've brought you a tray. Won't you try to eat 
 some? " 
 
 " Thank you, Annie." She opened the door, and thanked 
 God for Annie's lack of daintiness; there was enough food 
 for three sick people, and she ate it all ravenously. 
 
 Outside it was growing dark. Rita's anger was cooling; 
 after all, there was no use in expecting anything from 
 women, and she was growing more and more bored. She 
 read for a time and wrote several letters. Then she went 
 back to the window. The houses across the lake were 
 lighted, and there were trails of light across the water like 
 dozens of moon-paths. She heard the occasional noise of
 
 88 PROLOGUE 
 
 automobiles. Their own car drew up at the house and her 
 mother and Estelle Warren got in. Of course they were 
 going to Mrs. Barton's bridge party. Women! Rita smiled. 
 For a moment longer she sat there; then suddenly she sprang 
 to her feet and hurried over to her dressing-table, snapped 
 on the light. 
 
 She was wearing a negligee of pale yellow that bared her 
 neck and arms. She opened her jewelry-box and clasped a 
 string of orange beads around her neck, coiled her hair on 
 her head. There were nasturtiums in a blue bowl on her 
 table ; she pinned three of them above either ear. Then she 
 stared at herself, smiling. She heard steps on the stairs 
 and she powdered her nose quickly. It was only Annie, 
 taking away the tray. She shrugged her shoulders and 
 rubbed the lip stick over her mouth, lighted a cigarette. 
 The house was still. She sat, looking at her reflection, wait- 
 ing. Steps on the stairs; in the hallway . . . 
 
 " Rita! " 
 
 She opened the door slowly, and faced Roy. 
 
 "I'm awfully sorry. I'm oh, damn women, anyway." 
 
 Rita smiled. He was staring at her. " Don't say that," 
 she said quietly. " I'm a woman, you know." 
 
 She knew that until then she had not been a woman to 
 him; she was sure now that Roy had known she was not 
 flirting. But it did not matter now. . . . He put his 
 hand on the edge of the door and smiled. " I'm sorry you 
 weren't at dinner," he said. " I missed you." 
 
 " Did you? " Rita hated herself, as she looked up at 
 him, but her heart was pounding pleasantly and she felt 
 warm and excited.
 
 PROLOGUE 89 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Very much? " 
 
 He was smiling uncertainly, as though he did not want to 
 smile, stroking the edge of the door with his hand. For a 
 moment Rita felt almost sorry for him. If she said good- 
 night now, he would forget. She hummed quietly and 
 smiled. 
 
 " Rita ..." 
 
 " Roy! " She was mocking him now; she saw him bite 
 his lip as though to steady himself. 
 
 " Rita, I" 
 
 She laughed. 
 
 " I oh, damn it! " He stepped forward and put his 
 arms about her shoulders, drew her close to him. 
 
 Rita trembled slightly; she could feel his heart pounding, 
 too. " Damn what? " she asked idly, her mouth near his. 
 She looked up at his eyes; then her lids dropped as his 
 mouth pressed against hers. She had read that a woman 
 closes her eyes when she is kissed, but she had never known 
 why before. . . . Finally he released her, and caught her 
 in his arms again. 
 
 They stood looking at each other. 
 
 "Oh, Rita! " 
 
 Her breath caught; she moved towards him. Then she 
 held out her hand. " Good-night, Roy." 
 
 " Oh, Rita but I want to talk to you. I " He was 
 bending towards her, not quite smiling, and yet his mouth 
 was curved into what should have been a smile. 
 
 " Good-night, Roy." 
 
 " Good-night." He bent over her hand and kissed it.
 
 90 PROLOGUE 
 
 Rita closed the door softly, relocked it. Then she threw 
 herself on the bed and began to cry quietly. 
 
 II 
 
 More than anything else, she wanted to get away from 
 her mother and Roy until she could think things out for 
 herself. She wrote to Janet, and asked if she might visit 
 her. The letter that came back was enthusiastic, and Rita 
 packed her things with a mingling of eagerness and reluc- 
 tance. Schoolgirls and schoolgirl affairs seemed dull, after 
 Roy. 
 
 Breakfast, after that evening, had been intolerable. She 
 had felt that everyone's eyes were on her everyone's but 
 Roy's and his were too obviously elsewhere. He had tried 
 to talk with her, and she had kept away from him. She had 
 no idea what she wanted; she had almost convinced her- 
 self that she wanted Roy to think of her as a little girl 
 again, until she discovered that she was still carefully arrang- 
 ing her hair on the top of her head, still choosing the dresses 
 that made her look oldest. She was a little ashamed when 
 she had to admit to herself that she did not want him to 
 think her a little girl. 
 
 When they went swimming Lilias and Estelle, Roy and 
 her father, she had swum far beyond the float and Roy 
 had joined her. She was slim and attractive in her green 
 bathing suit, with her red hair hidden by the green 
 cap. 
 
 " Rita, won't you talk with me? " he asked, swimming up 
 to her.
 
 PROLOGUE 91 
 
 " I can't, Roy." 
 
 " But, Rita" 
 
 Laughing, she dived into the water, and turned a somer- 
 sault, swam quickly back towards her mother and Estelle. 
 She wanted to talk with him but she was afraid. 
 
 The day before Roy and Estelle went home, she left 
 Larchborough to visit Janet. 
 
 " I'm going to kiss you good-bye, Rita," Roy said, after 
 her mother and Estelle had kissed her. Rita tried not to 
 flush, and looked up at him bravely. It was not a success 
 as a kiss; they were both frightened, and Rita's lips trem- 
 bled as his mouth brushed hers. 
 
 " Good-bye, Roy," she said lightly. " Bye, family." She 
 stepped into the car and leaned back against the seat. She 
 wondered if her mother and Estelle had noticed ; her cheeks 
 were flaming. The train trip was interminable, but finally 
 she reached the station, and found Janet waiting on the 
 platform. 
 
 The Crosbys had a summer cottage about twenty miles 
 south of Boston; a town with a country club and a fash- 
 ionable population. Janet was growing up rapidly, and her 
 mother wanted her to have every advantage in the choice of 
 a husband. 
 
 " There's a nice kid staying with Phil Burns," Janet said, 
 as the two girls, in white skirts and striped " blazers ", 
 walked along the road towards the ice-cream store. " Don- 
 ald Wells." 
 
 " What! " Rita said excitedly. " Donald Wells? He's 
 my cousin, Jan! I haven't seen him for where is he? 
 When can I see him? " She was suddenly jealous of Janet;
 
 92 PROLOGUE 
 
 jealous of anyone who thought her Donald a " nice kid ". 
 
 "He'll probably be at the ice-cream place," Janet said 
 casually, and another wave of jealousy came over Rita. So 
 Janet was interested in him, too; knew where he would be! 
 
 He was sitting at a table in the shop, alone, eating an 
 elaborate " banana split ", and he stood up as they came 
 in. He wore long trousers and looked grown-up and hand- 
 some. 
 
 " H'lo, Jan." 
 
 " H'lo, Donald." 
 
 Rita appeared behind Janet and smiled. " Hello, Don- 
 ald," she said, and held out her hand. 
 
 " Rita Moreland! " He shook her hand violently. " Gee, 
 I never expected to see you here! " 
 
 " Rita's visiting me," Janet said. " You never told me 
 that Rita was your cousin you never mentioned her at 
 all." 
 
 " I never knew you knew each other. She isn't really 
 my cousin. Gee! " 
 
 They ordered ice-creams and sat together, talking. Janet 
 had a strawberry-walnut-marshmallow-with-a-cherry, and 
 Rita, because she did not know much about the sundaes 
 that her generation was reveling in, had the same. She 
 noticed that Donald was not wearing the ring she had given 
 him four years before; she put her hands in her lap and 
 pulled off his ring, tied it to the corner of her handkerchief. 
 The conversation was inadequate ; there were so many things 
 she wanted to tell Donald and ask him that she could think 
 of none of them. And then there was Janet. But Donald 
 did not seem to mind that .
 
 PROLOGUE 93 
 
 " You might come up tonight and see us," suggested 
 Janet. 
 
 " Sure I'd like to." They said good-bye and started 
 back towards the Crosby home. 
 
 Luck was on Rita's side that evening, in the form of 
 visiting relatives who wanted to talk to Janet, so she and 
 Donald sat together on the piazza. After Rita had asked 
 about the family, there fell a silence. 
 
 " You've grown pretty," Donald said awkwardly. 
 
 Rita, with her newly found sophistication, had dressed 
 carefully in a frock that was most becoming, that made her 
 young figure most attractive. Yet she was disappointed in 
 Donald for noticing. She didn't want . . . 
 
 " Wasn't I always? " she asked lightly but her heart sank. 
 Was Donald, then, like Bobby and every other young boy; 
 couldn't they be good friends, as they had promised to be 
 long before? 
 
 " Prettier, then/' said Donald, thinking to himself that 
 all girls were vain as peacocks. 
 
 " Oh, Donald! " said Rita. " Don't let's talk like damn 
 fools " He started a little at her words, but she kept 
 on relentlessly. " Why do we have to be stupid and silly 
 and talk about things we aren't interested in? It's so long 
 since we've seen each other, and we used to be such good 
 friends." 
 
 " W T e're still friends, aren't we? w asked Donald. " Wonder 
 how long those old hens are going to keep Jan in 
 there? " 
 
 " I'll go and see," Rita said wearily. \Vhen she came 
 out, Janet was with her.
 
 94 PROLOGUE 
 
 III 
 
 August 26th, 1914. 
 DEAR ROY: 
 
 I'm bored bored bored. It seems as though I hated 
 everything. And people oh, my God! You remember I 
 told you about Donald Wells, my cousin I'm so very fond 
 of? We used to have such nice talks together. I just 
 met him, and he is a silly boy who bores me to tears and 
 whom I bore much more. Oh, Roy! 
 
 It's no fun being young no fun at all. 
 
 It was fun with you at Larchborough. You don't know 
 how happy I was. And, Roy, I couldn't talk to you then, 
 I just couldn't stay. Some day I may tell you why. But I 
 don't love you, you know. Oh, Roy, I'm not saying virtu- 
 ously that you love your wife I know you don't. You 
 couldn't. But it isn't me. So let's just forget about that 
 as much as we can, and go back to being the awfully good 
 friends we were? Don't make me lose my two best friends 
 in the same week I'd have no faith in anything left. 
 
 This is just a note Janet wants me to go over and eat 
 another sticky sundae I've had only three so far today 
 and make eyes at various youths. 
 
 Write and tell me that life is just a bit worth-while. 
 
 As ever, 
 
 RITA. 
 
 August 28th, 1914. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 It was nice to hear from you, and I'm not sorry for you 
 at all. I'm glad you're bored it's good for you. If you
 
 PROLOGUE 95 
 
 get bored enough, you'll stop talking about it, and do some- 
 thing. There, that's not very pleasant, is it? But you 
 must remember (and so must I, my dear) that I'm old 
 enough to be your father, and my words of wisdom should 
 be respected accordingly. 
 
 Life is rather unpleasant, though but you're not going 
 to find it so. I won't have you. You see I love you very 
 dearly, little Rita mostly a great big pleasant friendly love. 
 It's nasty that you have to write me at my office, all marked 
 up with " personal " on the envelope, but there's ever and 
 always the old bugbear of what people will say. We really 
 care more for that than for anything else. Although you, 
 with your " what-will-be-will-be " creed probably don't 
 believe it. But you just denied it yourself, child think a 
 little. 
 
 I'm sorry about Donald, but he's going through a difficult 
 age. He was probably embarrassed to death. Remember 
 that the last time he saw you, you were a little girl. Think 
 how you embarrassed me, and I'm a good ten years and 
 more older than he is. He'll outgrow it and you'll get to 
 be friends. I'm a little jealous of him for fear you will 
 talk to him instead of to me, when he is a human being again. 
 
 When people are adolescent as you and Donald are, 
 Rita dear you aren't quite human. There are about five 
 years when you're quite impossible. There, will you ever 
 write to me again? I don't mind that you're adolescent, 
 you know. I rather like it. But life is pretty hard, then. 
 I remember through the dim past the days when I was your 
 age. 
 
 You've got life ahead of you, child, and you're breaking
 
 9 6 PROLOGUE 
 
 through to it. And just a few weeks ahead of you, you 
 have New York and dozens of new people and ideas. I 
 think you haven't much more of this terrific floundering and 
 buffetting ahead of you like our poor old fish remember? 
 
 Don't be cross with me for this patronizing letter, Rita 
 dear. And write to me again. Here's hoping for a speedy 
 entry into life for you, child. 
 
 Love to you, my dear, 
 
 ROY. 
 
 .IV 
 
 She had said good-bye to Janet and the Crosbys, to Don- 
 ald, and she was at last on the Larchborough train. She 
 looked out the window thoughtfully. She had kept Roy's 
 letter to read again on the train before she tore it up. It 
 had been good to hear from him. She read it through 
 slowly, and leaned back against the dusty red seat. 
 
 She was sixteen years old. Ahead of her were years and 
 years of life, new friends, new ideas. There would be only 
 a few weeks of Larchborough, and then New York. 
 
 She hardly remembered New York ; it was four years since 
 she had lived there. New York a great new city, waiting 
 for her to come and pick the things she wanted. 
 
 New York . . . 
 
 For the moment, youth did not seem intolerable to her, 
 after all.
 
 Part Two 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 RITA sat quietly at one end of the couch, balancing a cup 
 of tea in one hand and a plate of sandwiches in the other. 
 She looked puzzled, a little bewildered, even, but it was not, 
 as her father standing across the room, thought, because her 
 tea was cooling and her sandwiches slipping perilously near 
 the edge of her plate. She had forgotten that she held 
 them. 
 
 September had come, and the Morelands had left the 
 flaming autumn behind them in Larchborough and had gone 
 to New York, where seasons are things of clothing and 
 temperature, rather than of color. The house was in order 
 at last, and Lilias was giving her first tea of the season. 
 
 The living-room was crowded with people, talking quickly, 
 interrupting each other, laughing. It was more like a 
 kaleidoscope than anything else, Rita decided, a kaleido- 
 scope of sound instead of color. Although there was plenty 
 of color. Bits of conversation floated towards her and 
 whirled past. There were about sixty people in the large 
 room, and Rita was sure that they were talking about sixty 
 different things. 
 
 97
 
 98 PROLOGUE 
 
 " This is your introduction to New York, isn't it? " 
 the man who sat at the other end of the couch asked 
 her. 
 
 Rita looked at him thoughtfully. She had no idea who 
 he was; a rather nice looking, pleasant sort of person. 
 " Yes," she said. 
 
 " D'you like it? " 
 
 Rita leaned over and placed her cup and saucer on the 
 table before she answered. " Why I don't know," she 
 said. " It it's a little like nature New York. It makes 
 you feel so unimportant. And " 
 
 The man laughed and looked at Rita again. " And then 
 again it's like nature because it can make you feel so fright- 
 fully important," he said. 
 
 " Can it? " Rita looked at him vaguely. Phrases, sen- 
 tences, new words, were still being tossed about the room; 
 the tall, dark woman standing near the window was talking 
 about the "little theaters" whatever they were; the man 
 with red hair and a rose-colored tie was pounding emphatic- 
 ally upon the butterfly table, and saying, " But I don't 
 agree with you at all! You don't understand the psychology 
 of it. The " The slender, Burnes- Jones girl beside him 
 seemed not at all alarmed by his violence. 
 
 " It's really a small town," the man on the couch said. 
 " Or no it's a hundred a thousand small towns. There's 
 no such thing as New York." 
 
 Rita laughed. The man was interesting; she would like 
 to talk about New York with him, but conversation was 
 impossible to her at that moment. He probably thought 
 her young and stupid her eyes caught on a woman standing
 
 PROLOGUE 99 
 
 near the French window. She wore no hat, and her hair 
 was like a Valkyrie's in a thunder storm. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She looked up as her mother and a young woman came 
 towards the couch. " Rita dear, I want you to meet Peggy 
 Norris. She yes, Mr. Howe, I'm coming right over." 
 She hurried across the room, and the girl sat down on the 
 couch. 
 
 " How's the world treating you these days, Peg? " the 
 man who had been talking to Rita asked. 
 
 " Fine. It treats me better than it does a lot of people, 
 though. I've just come from the strike. I've been doing 
 a story about it." 
 
 " Pretty messy down there, isn't it? " asked the man. 
 
 " Messy? It's terrible. The conditions those people " 
 She broke off and laughed. " I've just promised Jim that 
 I wouldn't orate on the strike any more. The woman 
 talking to Mr. Mor eland the one with all the feathers 
 said something about it, and I burst forth. Then I dis- 
 covered that she was a dyed-in-the-wool capitalist the kind 
 that's a Daughter of the American Revolution, and says 
 that if this country was good enough for George Washing- 
 ton, it ought to be good enough for a few dirty foreigners, 
 and well, blood was almost let. So now I'm trying to 
 keep to tea conversation art, literature, fashions and 
 scandal." 
 
 Rita watched her while she spoke; she was a pretty girl, 
 young and boyish, in an informal sort of Norfolk jacket 
 suit, with wavy brown hair clipped short like a man's. She 
 turned toward Rita when she had finished.
 
 ioo PROLOGUE 
 
 " How do you like New York? " she asked. 
 
 " I don't know yet/' Rita repeated. " I think I'll like 
 it as soon as I find out what it is." 
 
 " New York's a joy," said Peggy Norris. " And the joy 
 of it is that it's whatever you want it to be. It doesn't 
 disappoint anyone who knows what he wants. You're going 
 to school here? " 
 
 " I'm tutoring this year," said Rita. " I've been in young 
 ladies' finishing schools for the last three years. Now I'm 
 going to college." 
 
 "Good." Peggy Norris had a curious air of authority; 
 Rita decided that she was not much over twenty. " Colum- 
 bia? " 
 
 "I don't know. I" 
 
 "Rita, dear! " Lilias came across the room again; she 
 was lovely in her yellow dress, with a fan of orange feathers 
 drooping from her hand. " I want you to come over here 
 and meet Martha Webb. You'll excuse us, won't you, 
 Peggy? " She nodded, and Rita followed her mother 
 obediently. " This little Martha Webb is an awfully inter- 
 esting girl, Rita," her mother continued. " She's only 
 nineteen, and she's making a hundred dollars a week or so, 
 writing captions and things for moving pictures. She " 
 They had crossed the room and come to a corner where two 
 girls sat chatting on the day-bed. " Miss Webb, this is 
 my daughter, Rita. And Miss O'Day." Again Rita shook 
 hands gravely, and sat down. 
 
 Martha Webb looked less like a business woman than 
 anything Rita could imagine. She was more slender than 
 Rita herself, and there was a look of helplessness in her
 
 PROLOGUE 101 
 
 brown eyes. Her face was spattered with freckles^ a singu- 
 larly youthful, almost childish face. 
 
 " I'm glad to know you, Miss Moreland," she said, and 
 her voice, too, was amazing. It was full and rich, curiously 
 mature for its freckled owner. " We're talking about 
 clothes. Did you ever see anything more eatable than this 
 dress of Lucy's? " 
 
 Rita looked at Miss O'Day's dress and said that she never 
 had. " It's not a dress, is it? " she agreed. " It's a crea- 
 tion." 
 
 Miss O'Day smiled, and patted the ruffles they were 
 almost petals of pink and white and lavender. " And all 
 by virtue of having a rich sister who never buys clothes that 
 are becoming to her," she said. " My poor but honest 
 labors could never bring me anything like this." 
 
 " I suppose everyone has asked you how you like New 
 York? " said Martha Webb. 
 
 " Everyone," Rita answered gravely. " And to everyone, 
 I have to say that I don't know." 
 
 " I hate it," said Lucy O'Day, " It" 
 
 Miss Webb's hand was pressed firmly over her mouth. 
 " Would you ever imagine," she asked Rita, " that any- 
 thing as pretty and as dear as Lucy could ever have 
 grouches? Grouches, did I say? Real spasms of sticky 
 Russian gloom. New York is oh, it's heavenly. It's 
 both ends of the rainbow and the middle with all the colors 
 festooned prettily about the gold crocks. It's " 
 
 " Dirty and cruel and " Lucy O'Day laughed as 
 Martha's hand pressed down again. 
 
 " It seems to be awfully full of people," said Rita. " I
 
 102 PROLOGUE 
 
 mean not just inhabitants people. I'm still confused and 
 bewildered at it all. I " 
 
 " It's just because you're getting us en masse," Martha 
 Webb said. " It seems as though people always got their 
 introductions to New York at teas. And teas with all 
 due respect to your mother and to us who gallop to every 
 tea she invites us to are the lowest form of human life. 
 Just as you get started talking with someone you're grabbed 
 away, and what did I tell you? " She rose as a man came 
 towards her. " Miss Moreland, I want you to meet John 
 Cook I should have said it the other way 'round, I guess. 
 I'm rotten on introductions." She smiled at Rita. " Miss 
 Moreland, your education is not complete until you have met 
 John Cook. He's the world's greatest dancer, and makes 
 love more prettily and fluently " 
 
 " Martie, be still. Miss Moreland, for years this woman 
 has refused to take me seriously. She " 
 
 " Do you want to be taken seriously? " asked Rita, 
 and Martha and Miss O'Day laughed merrily. 
 
 " From the start they're on to you, Johnny! " Miss 
 O'Day said. " Young and old Of course he doesn't," 
 she said to Rita. 
 
 " I've come to take you over to be introduced to Nichols," 
 Cook said to Miss Webb. "He says he's been trying to 
 meet you for the last six months, and " 
 
 " Heavens, is my hat on straight? " gasped Miss Webb. 
 " This man may be my future boss some day," she explained 
 to Rita. " He doesn't know it yet, of course, but I've had 
 my eye on him for some time. In case I don't see you 
 again, please come down to tea some day any Thurs-
 
 PROLOGUE 103 
 
 day afternoon. I'm in the telephone book. I Good- 
 bye." 
 
 " Good-bye," Lucy O'Day and Rita said together. 
 
 " Isn't she a darling? " asked Miss O'Day. " She's just 
 as clever as she can be, and well she's so clever that you 
 never even notice it. Everyone adores Martie. And you 
 really must come down to tea with us some Thursday I'm 
 uptown now, but I'm going to move down to Martie's place 
 in a week or so." 
 
 " I'd love to," Rita said. 
 
 " Come next Thursday," said Miss O'Day. " It's on 
 my way to stop here I'll call for you at four or half- 
 past." 
 
 Rita smiled gratefully. She was wondering what Lucy 
 O'Day did, and was surprised to find herself wondering. 
 Perhaps in New York, you took it for granted that every- 
 one did something; even Miss O'Day, ridiculously feminine 
 and fluffy in her rich sister's dress, would not have surprised 
 Rita by admitting that she was a coal-heaver. 
 
 " Rita! " Lilias was calling again. 
 
 " Won't you come along? " Rita asked Miss O'Day. 
 
 " I'm going to run over and gossip with Peg Norris," 
 Lucy O'Day said. " I'll see you again before I leave." 
 
 As Rita crossed the room, she caught a glimpse of her 
 reflection in the long mirror between the windows. Her 
 dark blue silk dress fitted her nicely, and the green maline 
 wrapped about her shoulders emphasized her red hair. She 
 smiled, and was still smiling when she reached her mother 
 and a young man who stood beside her. 
 
 " Rita, this is Lloyd Evans," said Lilias. " He wanted
 
 104 PROLOGUE 
 
 to know who the lovely young woman with the red hair 
 was, and I explained that she wasn't a lovely young woman 
 at all, but my one and only child." 
 
 Rita grinned at the man. " How do you do," she said. 
 " I'm not sure whether I like New York yet or not. I 
 think I do." 
 
 Her mother looked at her with a mixture of disapproval 
 and pride, " She inherits her father's caution, you see," 
 she said. " They never make a direct statement those Xew 
 Englanders." 
 
 " But when they say ' perhaps ', they mean l yes ', don't 
 they? " Lloyd Evans asked her, smiling at Rita. " I'm 
 not afraid." 
 
 There was somehow more disapproval than pride in Lilias' 
 face as she left them together. 
 
 "So you don't know yet whether you like New York? " 
 Lloyd Evans repeated. "Neither do I and I'm one of 
 those curiosities that was born here. On the whole I do 
 like it, rather. Seen much of it? " 
 
 " Grand Central Station Broadway Fifth Avenue 
 and only superficially," said Rita. " We've been here almost 
 a month, and I haven't lived here since I was a baby." 
 
 " Yeahs and yeahs ago." He looked at her speculatively, 
 and seemed to decide in her favor. " You must let me show 
 you some of the city. I don't suppose Lilias lets you have 
 dinner with young men, but how about playing with me 
 tomorrow afternoon? " 
 
 "I'd love to," Rita said. "I" She looked up and 
 smiled at John Cook. 
 
 " You haven't lost me," he said cheerfully.
 
 PROLOGUE 105 
 
 " Evidently not," said Lloyd Evans, and Cook made a 
 face at him amiably. 
 
 " May I stay? " he asked Rita. 
 
 " Of course," she said, and he drew up a third chair. 
 
 " I didn't get half a chance to talk with you. You were 
 interesting enough as this unseen daughter of Lilias we'd 
 heard so much about. But now that we've seen you I 
 was wondering if I couldn't show you some of this city of 
 ourn? " 
 
 " There's a lot of it I haven't seen," said Rita. 
 
 " Tomorrow is my busy day," he began, " but " 
 
 " Wash day," Lloyd Evans put in, and Cook ignored him. 
 
 " But Tuesday are you all engaged up for Tuesday? " 
 
 Rita was beginning to wish that she had brought a pencil 
 and paper with her to the tea, but she shook her head. 
 
 " Tuesday, then if I may I shall appear here promptly 
 at three o'clock. May I? " 
 
 " I'd like to have you," Rita said. " You see, I" 
 
 " I hope you've been warned against this man," Evans 
 interrupted. " He " 
 
 " Miss O'Day and Miss Webb introduced him to me," said 
 Rita. " Of course" 
 
 " That's probably enough. Martie Webb knows Cook 
 better than anyone else does. And " 
 
 " Rita! " 
 
 Rita frowned. It seemed as though her mother liked 
 interrupting her. And she was having such a nice time. 
 
 " Come over here a minute, Rita." 
 
 " Yes, Mother." She turned to the two men a little 
 ruefully. " A tea is a brutal thing," she said. She picked
 
 io6 PROLOGUE 
 
 her way across the room that seemed to be more crowded 
 every minute, a bit more graceful than usual because of the 
 two pairs of eyes that watched her. " Yes, Mother? " 
 
 Lilias Moreland was standing alone; she smiled at Rita, 
 and patted her cheek. " You're very charming, my dear," 
 she admitted. " Do you remember the Walkers? You 
 were introduced to them early this afternoon." 
 
 " He has red hair? " 
 
 " Yes and she's rather good looking Spanish effect. 
 They're having a theater party tonight, and they have an 
 extra ticket. Helen wants to know if you'd like to go with 
 them I think you'd have a nice time." 
 
 " Oh, for an engagement book! " sighed Rita. " Is New 
 York always like this? Yes, I'd like to go, Mother." 
 
 " You'd better run and change your dress, then. They'll 
 take you to their apartment for dinner. It's six now." 
 
 " All right, Mother." Rita looked regretfully about the 
 room. No one stopped her on her way to the door, and she 
 stood for a moment looking back, before she hurried down 
 the hall. 
 
 " Hello, Rita." It was her father, indistinct in the dim- 
 ness of the hall. 
 
 " Hello, Father." She put her arms about his neck and 
 kissed his cheek. " Oh, Father " 
 
 " Yes? " 
 
 " New York how do people ever do any work here? " 
 
 Webster Moreland smiled. " Some don't," he said. 
 " And then some people are spurred on to action by all 
 this bustle." 
 
 He watched her, smiling, as she ran up the stairs.
 
 PROLOGUE 107 
 
 II 
 
 Rita cuddled down in the back seat of the automobile 
 between Mr. and Mrs. Walker. It was almost an adven- 
 ture, this being whirled away with people she had never 
 met before that afternoon. She studied them quietly, while 
 she talked. Mrs. Walker was a tall, valiant type of woman. 
 Her color was high, and her eyes were the sort that really 
 flash; it seemed to Rita that she put more energy into 
 simple conversation, into her gestures, her entire manner, 
 than most people can muster for a crisis. Mr. Walker, in 
 contrast to his wife at least, was a quiet man; he seemed 
 not so much restrained by her, as self-restrained in defiance 
 of so much energy. 
 
 " You'll excuse us while we go upstairs and dress, won't 
 you? " Mrs. Walker asked, as they stepped into the hall 
 of her apartment. 
 
 " Yes," said Rita. 
 
 " Oh if anyone comes before we get down, just introduce 
 yourself." 
 
 " Yes," Rita said again. 
 
 She looked about the living-room curiously; people's 
 houses interested her, particularly the houses of people she 
 did not know well. It was a pleasant room, with large, com- 
 fortable furniture and many books. The pictures were full 
 of color and well framed; the wall paper was a soft gray 
 background for the warmth of the room. 
 
 She slipped off her evening cape and looked with satis- 
 faction at her white and silver dress. Lilias had given her
 
 io8 PROLOGUE 
 
 permission to do up her hair that summer. It was not be- 
 cause she wanted a grown daughter, but she was acute 
 enough to see that an overgrown girl with flying hair and 
 long legs makes people wonder whether perhaps she is not 
 older, whether perhaps she is not kept a child through a 
 beautiful mother's jealousy. Because Lilias was jealous 
 of Rita, she did everything in her power to conceal it; she 
 gave her more freedom than another woman would have 
 given. 
 
 Rita sat down in front of the empty fire-place and waited. 
 A bell rang and a maid went down the hall, ushered a man 
 into the room. Rita rose she wished that she could forget 
 her early training; it was so much more grown-up and wom- 
 anly to remain seated and smiled. 
 
 " Mrs. Walker said I was to introduce myself," she 
 explained. " I'm Rita Moreland." 
 
 " I'm Dwight Patterson," he said, crossing the room and 
 sitting down opposite Rita's chair. " I don't believe I've 
 met you at the Walkers' before? " 
 
 " I've just come to New York." 
 
 He looked at her steadily for a moment. " I know 
 you look like Web Moreland." 
 
 " I'm his daughter," Rita answered. She rather resented 
 his calling her father " Web ". In the first place, he was a 
 much younger man than Webster Moreland, and in the 
 second, Rita, with her usual abruptness, had decided that 
 she did not like him. He was too blond, too self-possessed. 
 She wished that he would drop one of the white gloves he 
 still held in his hands, and soil it. He looked too scrubbed. 
 When the Walkers came downstairs together and Rita rose,
 
 PROLOGUE 109 
 
 she brushed against the gloves, now laid carefully on the 
 table, and felt a little gleeful when Patterson leaned over 
 to pick them up. Her mother would have sensed the amuse- 
 ment in her " Oh, I'm sorry." 
 
 The other guests arrived almost at once; the slender girl 
 with the Valkyrie hair who had been at the tea and who 
 proved to be Mrs. Burton; Ralph Burton, her husband, a 
 painter who looked like a painter, with a proper brown beard 
 and a pleasing air of general untidiness although there was 
 nothing disarranged about him when you came to look 
 closely; Daniel West, who looked like a stockbroker and 
 proved to be a poet and who convinced Rita in five 
 minutes' conversation that he wrote poetry like a stock- 
 broker; Elaine Keith, who looked very charming, and who 
 needed and evidently had nothing else of interest about 
 her; and a young man and a young woman, Miss Bullard 
 and Mr. Steele, who might have been interesting, but who 
 were interested in each other to the complete exclusion of 
 everyone and everything else. 
 
 Rita was a little disappointed when she discovered that 
 of the five men, Dwight Patterson had evidently been 
 assigned to her. She sat between him and Ralph Burton at 
 dinner, and for the first time in her life as the well brought- 
 up daughter of a perfect hostess, devoted most of her time 
 and conversation to the man who was not hers by right. 
 Patterson, however, had the charming Elaine Keith at his 
 other hand, and did not suffer greatly; in fact it seemed to 
 Rita that her mis-movement made things better all about the 
 table. 
 
 Ralph Burton interested Rita; first, because he was a
 
 no PROLOGUE 
 
 painter; afterwards, because he proved interested in her. 
 She felt vaguely that he was the sort of man who made 
 every woman feel that, but she liked, rather than disliked, 
 him for it. 
 
 The dinner was a delicious meal, and Rita who had not 
 bothered with the sandwiches and cake at her mother's tea 
 found herself suddenly hungry. The last course and it 
 was ice-cream, a melon shaped cake of frozen cream and 
 raspberry ice, which grown people so seldom tolerated 
 was hurried, to Rita's regret. When they filed out into the 
 living-room, and Rita saw that it was a quarter-past eight, 
 her eyes danced. For the first time in her life, she was 
 going to be late for the theater. 
 
 Mrs. Walker was a wise hostess, and when she saw that 
 Rita so intensely preferred Ralph Burton's conversation to 
 Patterson's, she not only approved her taste, but sent her 
 into the taxi-cab with him and the inseparable Miss Bullard 
 and Mr. Steele, while the rest of the party went on to the 
 theater in her car. 
 
 The play was a musical comedy, and was going in full 
 blast when they entered the theater. Rita alone was inter- 
 ested in the play, and she felt rather condescending towards 
 the others, who were so tragically grown-up. Miss Bullard 
 and Mr. Steele watched the stage steadfastly, and sat close 
 together, thinking their own thoughts, although no one, as 
 far as Rita could see, felt the slightest wish to address either 
 of them. 
 
 When the curtain fell on the last chorus, Ralph Burton 
 turned towards Rita. " We're going somewhere and dance," 
 he said, and Rita was surprised to see how much he looked
 
 PROLOGUE in 
 
 forward to dancing. It was her introduction to an after- 
 the-theater cafe, and she tried not to look as impressed as 
 she really was. After their first dance, Burton patted her 
 hand admiringly. 
 
 " My God, girl ! " he said. Rita was glad that she danced 
 well, and when Mrs. Walker finally rose, and the women 
 began putting on their wraps, her heart sank. 
 
 " One more dance," pleaded Burton. They waited for 
 a moment for the music, and finally he crossed the floor 
 impatiently and engaged in earnest conversation with the 
 leader of the orchestra. Rita's eyes grew round as she 
 saw something long and green slip from his hand to the 
 hand that instantly afterwards picked up the baton. A 
 waltz crashed out, and for a moment Rita was so excited 
 that she danced less well but it was only for a moment. 
 
 " We'll take Rita home with us," the Valkyrie-haired Mrs. 
 Burton said, and the three of them stepped into a cab 
 together. " Had a nice time, child? " 
 
 " Oh, so nice! " If Mrs. Burton had felt any pangs of 
 jealousy because Rita so frankly had preferred her husband 
 to any of the other guests, the admiration in Rita's eyes 
 would have disarmed her. Annette Burton was lovely, and 
 there was nothing in her simple white evening dress, or 
 the still simpler peacock blue wrap, to mar her loveliness. 
 
 " You're a nice child," she said, smiling. " I want you 
 to come up and see me. Ralph's studio is just above our 
 apartment, and you'll be awfully interested in that. Besides, 
 I can see in his eyes that he's planning to paint you." 
 
 " I would like to," he said. " Some day, Rita you don't 
 mind if I call you that? "
 
 ii2 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I like it," Rita said. " Sometimes I like to be called 
 Miss Moreland just to remind me that I'm growing up, but 
 after I'm reminded of it, I want all the people I like to call 
 me Rita. You must, you know, Mrs. Burton." 
 
 " I'm afraid I have," said Annette Burton. " My name's 
 Annette." 
 
 " It's a pretty name." Rita leaned back against the seat 
 and watched the lights streaking past the open windows of 
 the cab. The sky was a deep blue, faded and soiled near 
 the horizon by the glare of electric lights; the stars were 
 deeply set. " Oh, I do like New York! " she said. 
 
 And the New York she liked at the moment was the 
 New York of beautiful evening clothes and correct dinners, 
 of taxi-cabs and theaters, of flaring electric lights and a 
 deep blue sky tinged with yellow. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Monday morning went swiftly. Somehow Rita managed 
 to collect her thoughts sufficiently to translate her Homer 
 and eventually to forget New York altogether, in the four 
 hours with her tutor, David Ashley. Her father had found 
 David Ashley, raked him out of forgotten college days when 
 they had been room-mates at Harvard. Rita felt eternally 
 grateful to him; for the first time in her life she was study- 
 ing with a keen enjoyment of her studies. And Ashley found 
 all the qualities that he liked in Webster Moreland reflected 
 and grown brighter in the small daughter who resembled 
 him so much ; he appreciated the added warmth and love of 
 life that Rita had inherited from her mother. In fact he
 
 PROLOGUE 113 
 
 found the daily four hours with Rita so interesting and 
 entertaining that more than once he had to remember that 
 he was a man of well, over forty and that Rita would 
 grow up in due time, and marry some splendid boy of her 
 own age. 
 
 When one o'clock came, Rita looked at her wrist-watch 
 and said regretfully, " Oh, it can't be! " 
 
 David Ashley laughed. " It is," he said, pulling out his 
 own watch. 
 
 " And I have got to have lunch and dress and " She 
 remembered suddenly. " I'm being shown New York this 
 afternoon," she said. Her eyes grew thoughtful as she 
 wondered what dress she should wear, and her tutor felt a 
 pang of discontent that it was not he who could share 
 Rita's afternoons. He did not realize that she would have 
 enjoyed an afternoon of play with him quite as much as 
 she enjoyed a morning of work. Or perhaps he did realize 
 it, and was afraid to let her know that he could play with 
 present things as well as with memories of dead Greeks and 
 Romans. 
 
 " Good-bye, Rita." He was holding out his hand, and 
 she roused herself quickly. 
 
 " Good-bye, Mr. Ashley. It's been such an interesting 
 morning." She did not realize that she said that every 
 day at one o'clock, and he, realizing it, knew that she 
 meant it, and was glad, although it hurt him a little. 
 
 Lloyd Evans bustled into the living-room at two o'clock 
 promptly, and Rita was glad that her mother stopped for 
 a moment to talk with him. She watched them and felt a 
 kind of amusement in watching Lloyd Evans. He was very
 
 ii 4 PROLOGUE 
 
 much of a small boy; there was a swagger about him that 
 he meant to be dashing and impressive, and that managed 
 merely to be charming and ridiculous. He was not a hand- 
 some man; rather short and thick-set, dark haired and 
 skinned, with slanting gray eyes. He was in his late twen- 
 ties, Rita decided, although he looked at times both older 
 and younger. 
 
 Lilias finally released him, and Rita ran upstairs to put on 
 her coat and hat. She had decided to wear her brown suit; 
 it was smart enough for a fashionable cafe, if that was the 
 New York Mr. Evans chose to show her, but it was quiet 
 enough for a trip to the slums, if he was inclined toward 
 the picturesque. 
 
 As it happened, he chose neither. They walked briskly 
 over to Fifth Avenue the Moreland home was in the 
 late Thirties and hesitated for a moment. 
 
 " Feel like walking? " he asked. 
 
 " Never felt more like it," Rita answered. It was i a 
 brisk afternoon; the wind was blowing pleasantly up the 
 Avenue from Washington Square, and people everywhere 
 were walking. They were silent for a few blocks, Rita, 
 watching the great green 'busses lumbering down the 
 Avenue, the scuttling taxi-cabs, Lloyd watching her. When 
 they reached Madison Square, the wind went suddenly mad. 
 It blew furiously around the Flatiron Building, and the 
 structure seemed haughtily to ignore it. The Garden build- 
 ing rather enjoyed the wind; Diana looked quite as though 
 she might leap from her pedestal, and perhaps stand for 
 a few minutes on the shining gold knob that topped the 
 Metropolitan Tower.
 
 PROLOGUE 115 
 
 " My, it's lovely! " said Rita, clutching the orange 
 feather hat that she had begged from her mother. Her 
 breath came quickly and her cheeks were bright. 
 
 11 Yes," Lloyd Evans agreed, but he looked at her. " This 
 part of the Avenue now isn't so nice. But wait." 
 
 They talked from Twenty-second Street to Eleventh; 
 after that Rita was again preoccupied with what she 
 saw. 
 
 " That house is mine! " she said, as they reached Ninth 
 Street. 
 
 " That's been boneyed long ago," he assured her, smiling 
 at her approval of the square gray and brownstone house. 
 " The one on the other side is rather nice Mark Twain 
 used to live there." 
 
 Rita showed proper attention. At Washington Square 
 she insisted on sitting on one of the benches and staring. 
 "But isn't it glorious!" she said. "All those nicely 
 snobbish, aristocratic houses on this side, and the studios 
 on the other. I do like it! " 
 
 They walked around the statue of Garibaldi, and Rita 
 smiled and said, "Isn't he a darling? " as every woman with 
 any sort of a maternal instinct says on first beholding the 
 little Italian, drawing his sword, and beaming benignly on 
 the flesh and blood Italian babies who play, rain and shine, 
 about his pedestal. 
 
 " Do you like dominoes? " Lloyd Evans asked. 
 
 Rita looked up at him quickly. " Yes what's your 
 favorite color? " she asked impertinently. " I mean " 
 
 He laughed. "It really isn't so irrelevant," he said. 
 " Come along." They crossed the Square and walked along
 
 u6 PROLOGUE 
 
 the North side, turned up University Place. " This, my 
 child, is the Lafayette." 
 
 " It's sweet," said Rita, and she ran up the steps eagerly. 
 The room they entered was furnished with spindly legged 
 tables and chairs. There was no sign of tablecloths or 
 china. 
 
 " What would you like to drink? " he asked. " Tea is 
 rotten here, but you can have a sandwich or something if 
 you're hungry." 
 
 " I'm not," said Rita. " I what are you going to 
 have? " 
 
 " Being a bold wicked man, I'm about to have a highball. 
 Would you like a clover-club? " 
 
 " Don't dare. Of course I'd like it." She sighed. "A 
 lemonade, I suppose, but " 
 
 " No! " he interrupted, with a sudden gleam of excite- 
 ment. " You shall have a very pleasing drink that's really 
 a drink and yet that jeunes filles may consume. In fact I'll 
 have one with you, just for the fun. Deux pompiers " to 
 the waiter. 
 
 "Pompiers? " repeated Rita. " What are they? " 
 
 The waiter returned with bottles, glasses, and to Rita's 
 amusement, spoons. " It must be virtuous if you have a 
 spoon with it," she said. She watched while Lloyd poured 
 thick purple liquid into the glasses; then something yellow; 
 then the siphon. He gave Rita a spoon, and they stirred 
 vigorously. Rita tasted, and smiled. " Like it," she said. 
 She tasted again. "^ I do like it." Her eyes rested suddenly 
 on two elderly and excited Frenchmen at the next table. 
 " Dominoes! " she said. " Oh, I'm awfully glad you brought
 
 PROLOGUE 117 
 
 me here, Lloyd. I " She flushed as she realized that she 
 had called him by his first name. Her confusion was appar- 
 ent, and he smiled. 
 
 " I've been calling you Rita," he said. " Of course it's 
 Lloyd. And now I know that you like me." He picked 
 up her hand that rested on the table, and kissed it. Rita 
 looked about the room, slightly embarrassed. " New Eng- 
 lander! " he scoffed. 
 
 " No, really I'm not," she said quickly. " But I'm 
 not used to having my hand kissed. It " 
 
 ; 'Why, Rita Moreland! " 
 
 She looked at him earnestly. " Oh. I didn't mean 
 that! " 
 
 And Lloyd Evans, seeing how obviously she had not 
 meant " that " felt a little crestfallen and disappointed. 
 The dominoes came and they played excitedly. When Rita 
 had won three games in succession, Lloyd laughed and 
 looked about for the waiter. 
 
 " How nice it is to have waiters who don't hover around 
 and look as though they were in a hurry for you to leave," 
 said Rita. 
 
 " One of the charms of the place, my dear." 
 
 The waiter, having given them drink and dominoes, seemed 
 to have forgotten them completely, and Rita looked at the 
 prints on the walls and at the people, playing cards and 
 games, who sat at the tables. Finally the waiter remembered 
 them and hurried apologetically forward, returned with 
 bottles, and Lloyd refilled the glasses. 
 
 When they had finished their pompiers, it was nearly six 
 o'clock, and they left reluctantly.
 
 u8 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I've had a very nice time," Rita said, as they stood 
 together on the steps of her house. 
 
 " I'm glad," he said gravely. " We'll have another nice 
 time again soon." 
 
 Rita smiled. The world was such a pleasant place, filled 
 with old houses and cafes, all the romance of years gone by. 
 
 " A nice time," she repeated, half to herself. " Good- 
 bye, Lloyd." She ran up the steps to the house. 
 
 IV 
 
 Lessons were over for the morning, and Rita stood beside 
 David Ashley, looking thoughtfully out the window at the 
 rain that drenched the city. The black street glistened 
 and shiny topped taxi-cabs skidded along its surface. 
 
 " I like Fifth Avenue best at night when it's raining," 
 she said. " The reflections of the lights seem to skid down 
 the street along with the automobiles. It's all so streaked 
 and shiny." 
 
 " It's lovely," Ashley agreed. " You like New York, 
 don't you? " 
 
 "Y-yes," answered Rita. "I'll tell you, Mr. Ashley. 
 I've been here two months now. And every bit of New 
 York I've seen, I've liked. I've liked Broadway and the 
 theaters and the restaurants but there's so much of it, 
 and it's so jealous that it wants all of you. And I love 
 old New York, and the funny little streets. But old New 
 York is jealous, too it doesn't want you to play on Broad- 
 way. And there's a New York that's filled with wonderful 
 paintings and museums and concerts and that New York
 
 PROLOGUE ug 
 
 wants your twenty-four hours a day. It's such a restless 
 city. I like it all, but I haven't found my New York yet, 
 the New York that won't interrupt me and trouble me and 
 oh, I can't explain it." 
 
 "I think I know," he said. "It's the city's fault and 
 her virtue. I'm not afraid that you won't find your city. 
 It's like the world, Rita. It has a little of everything. I've 
 seen the tenderloin city thieves and criminals and dope- 
 fiends. And the society town. The artistic New York. 
 The working city. The studious city. There's something 
 for everyone. Some people find it too strong for them and 
 they stay and drift. And some people find it too strong, 
 so they run away to smaller towns. But some people find 
 it merely bewildering, and they stay and fight until they 
 have found what they want. Everyone can find what he 
 wants here. It's a merciless place, because it catalogues 
 and pigeon-holes people. It won't let you deceive even 
 yourself; it's a mirror. If you're a weakling, it's heartless. 
 But if you're at all strong it's magnificent." 
 
 Rita had been looking out the window, and she turned 
 and smiled as her tutor finished. " I do like you, Mr. Ash- 
 ley," she said. " I oh, I'm so puzzled. It's much worse 
 than a terrible tangle of Greek. It's I don't know what 
 I do want. I guess I never have. But it's beginning to 
 bother me now. I " 
 
 " You'll find out, Rita," he said quietly. " I'm very 
 sure you'll get whatever you want and I hope it will be 
 the right thing." 
 
 " That sounds so so ominous," said Rita, smiling a 
 little. "All I want is to be happy. That's simple, isn't
 
 120 PROLOGUE 
 
 it? " She took Ashley's hand in both of hers. " It is 
 simple, isn't it? " she demanded. " Just to be happy? It 
 is! I don't need very much. I " 
 
 They were both surprised when she stopped and took 
 out her handkerchief. Her face was already streaked with 
 tears when she had unfolded it. For a moment she stood 
 crying silently, looking out the window. Then she rolled 
 the handkerchief into a ball, thrust it in her pocket, and 
 turned toward Ashley, smiling. 
 
 " It must be the rain," she apologized. " I'm an idiot. 
 Ill run up and wash my face and tell Mother that you're 
 going to stay for luncheon it's entirely too wet for you 
 to go out." 
 
 She smiled brightly as she ran out of the room, and 
 Ashley stood frowning, watching her.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 IT was snowing as Rita walked down the Avenue. The 
 sun was hidden by the swollen clouds, and the light filtered 
 down as though the sky was a huge frosted shade over an 
 electric bulb. The storm had lasted, intermittently, for 
 almost a week, and although the street cleaners worked 
 incessantly, the sidewalks were heavy with snow. A 'bus 
 lumbered down the slippery street, stopped laboriously 
 while two women got out. Rita stood and watched the 
 driver as he tried to start the huge green animal again. 
 Finally the conductor hopped off the back step, and came 
 around to the driver, grinning, as the snow sifted down on 
 his face. 
 
 " Dirt again," he said. They shoveled brown earth from 
 their box, beneath the wheels, streaking the snow only for 
 an instant until fresh flakes fell and covered it. Finally, 
 snorting and grunting, the machine jerked forward, and 
 Rita returned the driver's grin of triumph. 
 
 She stopped and picked up great fistfuls of snow, rolled 
 them into hard balls. There was little traffic beside the 
 'busses and occasional anxious-looking taxi-cabs that seemed 
 to be driving on tip-toes, as though their wheels were revolv- 
 ing over powdered glass. She turned from the Avenue at 
 
 121
 
 122 PROLOGUE 
 
 Twenty-second Street, and walked quickly along the cross- 
 town blocks until she had crossed Eighth Avenue. Martha 
 Webb's apartment was in one of the old three-story build- 
 ings that still remained, sprinkled among sweat-shops and 
 small stores. 
 
 The light that sifted into the room through the snow- 
 covered skylight was brightened by the tall candles that 
 spluttered from sconces and candle-sticks about the yellow 
 walls. 
 
 " Run along in my room and throw down your things, 
 Rita," Martha said, smiling at her from where she sat on 
 the couch. 
 
 Rita paused for a moment at the door as she came back 
 into the living-room. The broad couch was half covered 
 with a brightly embroidered Spanish shawl, and on the low 
 table beside it, an orange luster bowl, half filled with 
 cigarette stubs, gleamed like the sun that had been hidden 
 from the city for so long. 
 
 " Aren't you most frozen? " Lucy O'Day asked, coming 
 over to her, and throwing a piece of charcoal into the fiery 
 samovar. " I suppose this room is frightfully hot, but we 
 were all so petrified when we came real Russian tea with 
 rum and orange and lemon and spices," she interrupted her- 
 self, fixing a tall crockery tumbler of the steaming liquid 
 for Rita. 
 
 " I was pretty well bundled up," Rita said. " Who's the 
 man with the funny clothes? " 
 
 " He's an awfully interesting person," Lucy said. " A 
 Frenchman. He came over here to avoid going into the 
 army. His whole family were up near the German boundary
 
 PROLOGUE 123 
 
 he doesn't know what has happened to them. He's really 
 awfully tragic." 
 
 " I should think he'd want to go in the army, then," Rita 
 said. " I mean " She looked at the slender, hollow- 
 eyed guest thoughtfully. ".He doesn't look as if he could 
 fight much, but " 
 
 " Come on over here, Rita," Martha called. " I want 
 you to meet Mr. Monnier." 
 
 Rita went over to the couch obediently, and gave her 
 cold hand to be kissed. 
 
 " Mr. Monnier is telling us about the war," Martha 
 continued. " Sit down and listen." 
 
 The Frenchman looked at Rita with melancholy eyes. 
 
 " It is very terrible," he said gravely. 
 
 " Yes," Rita agreed. 
 
 " I came here so that I need not go into the army. It 
 is terrible." 
 
 " Y-yes," Rita said. " I should think, though I mean 
 don't you want to help? " 
 
 Monnier looked at her sadly. "I do not believe in 
 war, Mademoiselle." 
 
 "N-no," Rita agreed. "But isn't it I mean isn't it 
 like not believing in cold weather? I mean it's there. 
 And France needs her men, doesn't she? " 
 
 Monnier smiled sadly at Martha Webb. "This young 
 woman is a patriot, is she not? " he asked. " Mademoiselle, 
 I have no patrie to defend. France belongs to the capital- 
 ists to the rich. Let them defend her." 
 
 Rita was silent. " But if " She turned helplessly to 
 Martha.
 
 124 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Mr. Monnier is a Socialist," said Martha. " He does 
 not believe in war. It would be against his principles to 
 fight." 
 
 " Oh," said Rita. " But" 
 
 " But what, Mademoiselle? " 
 
 " Nothing, I guess. I " Rita leaned against one of 
 the cushions, and let the conversation go on smoothly. 
 
 The others, Martha and Lucy, John Cook, who was sit- 
 ting beside Peggy Norris, Jim Norris and Alice Bradley, 
 the small violent young suffragist who was up from Wash- 
 ington visiting Martha and Lucy for a few days, all seemed 
 to know what to say and when to say it. It consisted 
 mostly in expressive " ahs! " and "of course! ", but it 
 was more than Rita could manage. She could not very 
 well say "ah! " when she wanted to say "But " and 
 pour forth a torrent of doubt and eagerness. 
 
 The others were not pretending comprehension, Rita 
 knew that. Perhaps they did not always understand, but 
 they had the key, the key that Rita had not yet found. 
 She leaned back dreamily and watched the faces through 
 the cigarette smoke, luxuriated in the warmth and friend- 
 liness of the room. It was often that she did not under- 
 stand the conversation at Martha's teas ; she was, of course, 
 younger than any of the others, but she liked to listen, 
 and understand what she could. Conversation at Martha's 
 always reminded her of the day she had picked up a Greek 
 newspaper in a boot-black's stand. She knew her ancient 
 Greek well; the letters, many of the words, were familiar. 
 She could even puzzle out the headlines. But the main 
 import of the articles was lost to her. It was the same
 
 PROLOGUE 125 
 
 at Martha's; she understood the language and most of 
 the long words that were flung about so gaily but it was 
 not always possible to co-ordinate them into sense. When 
 she did, she was quite as excited as the dark boot-black had 
 been, when she read him a long headline. 
 
 The arguments always left her speechless; seldom did 
 she get farther than a confused " But ". She liked to 
 listen to the others, to listen and to watch. 
 
 Peggy Norris, in an argument, sat very straight, and 
 looked as though she was wound up tightly with springs 
 that might snap at any moment, but that never did. Her 
 eyes looked always directly at the person she was talking 
 with; sometimes she leaned forward and took a cigarette 
 paper, rolled the cigarette quickly, without lowering her 
 gaze. Martha, on the other hand, became flushed and 
 excited. Her hands fluttered, picking nervously at her 
 handkerchief, at the couch cover, at anything within her 
 reach. Her words came haltingly; sometimes she stuttered 
 in her eagerness to explain the thoughts that were bolting 
 through her mind. Lucy O'Day talked most easily; she 
 was more likely than the other two to dismiss a subject 
 with a shrug of her shoulders when her point failed to 
 carry. Two or three times her temper had flared, and her 
 smooth voice, never lifted, perhaps smoother than ever, 
 could pour out scathing and even disagreeable things, while 
 she smiled, and her eyes wandered from one thing to 
 another in the room. Jimmy Norris always pounded and 
 roared; an argument between him and his young wife 
 was one of the most delightful things in the world. And 
 John Cook listened and smiled, sometimes shook his head
 
 126 PROLOGUE 
 
 and sometimes nodded, but never argued at all. At times 
 he smiled at Rita when they were both silent amid the 
 confusion of voices, but Rita realized that he was flattering 
 her if he thought she had learned his wisdom. She was 
 silent always because, although she loved the long argu- 
 ments and talks that shook Martha's room every Thurs- 
 day, she was somehow out of it. She did not under- 
 stand . . . 
 
 " 111 walk home with you, Rita," John Cook said, when 
 the long candles were spluttering only a few inches above 
 the sticks, and Martha's clock had struck six. 
 
 " All right." 
 
 They went out into the snow together. Rita drew in 
 long draughts of the cold air; outside Martha's her head 
 always seemed suddenly clearer; too often she thought of 
 the words and phrases that had failed her before when she 
 needed them. 
 
 " What do you think of Monnier? " 
 
 He was smiling at her, but Rita was grave with the 
 perlexity of giving an opinion. " I I don't know," she 
 said. " I am I a Socialist, John? " 
 
 Cook laughed. " Am I, Rita? " 
 
 Again Rita considered gravely. " Yes, I think you are," 
 she said at last. " But you don't take things so seriously. 
 And you're not so violent, somehow. But how can I 
 know what I am? " 
 
 He stopped smiling, because she was so intensely grave 
 over it all. "You needn't know yet, Rita," he said. 
 " You've got how old are you, child? " 
 
 " Sixteen. Sixteen and a half."
 
 PROLOGUE 127 
 
 " Well, you've a year or two more in New York before 
 you need make up your mind about a blessed thing. Then 
 when you've made it up, you'll have doubts and torments. 
 Just listen to them now, Rita listen to everyone. The 
 my Lord, you do make a person serious, Rita! How do 
 you do it? " 
 
 Rita smiled. " Do I? I guess it's because I'm so 
 awfully interested in everything. I didn't know anything 
 at all when I came to New York I don't now. But I'm 
 beginning to know the names and tags of the things I don't 
 know." 
 
 " I envy you, Rita," he said, and his face was quite 
 unsmiling as she looked at him to see if he was making 
 fun of her. He was silent, and Rita, her mind seething 
 with a confusion of thoughts was silent, too. It was not 
 until they reached her house that they spoke again. " Good- 
 night, Rita." 
 
 " Good-night, John. Thank you for walking home with 
 me." 
 
 She felt happy and glad that she was alive, as she ran 
 up the steps. 
 
 II 
 
 Nineteen-fifteen came in with a blast of gaiety and light- 
 heartedness. Rita felt lonely as she crept into her bed at 
 half-past ten. Sometimes it was unbearably hard to be 
 only sixteen, and to be properly brought up, when the world 
 was full of people who were only nineteen and twenty and 
 not being brought up at all. Perhaps if the people she 
 saw every day were only sixteen, too, it would be easier.
 
 128 PROLOGUE 
 
 But when she compared Janet and Marian with Martha 
 and Lucy, she knew that she preferred the occasional 
 heartaches when she was reminded of her youth, to the 
 drab, uninteresting life of a young girl. 
 
 And John and Jimmy Norris, even Lloyd Evans, of whom 
 the crowd's opinion was not overhigh, were preferable to 
 Donald at least, to the Donald whom she had seen last. 
 She thought of Donald occasionally, wondered why he had 
 changed from a really nice little boy into the awkward, 
 embarrassed youth she had met at Janet's. But there was 
 no sentiment in Rita's thoughts; her mind was too filled 
 with ideas. Men and women were catalogued alike in her 
 mind, according to their beliefs and interests. 
 
 At tea at Martha's the next week, she curled up on the 
 couch and listened to the story of the supper at Peggy's 
 that lasted until almost midnight, and then of the hurried 
 ride in cabs to the great hall where hundreds of people 
 in costume saw the new year in, and lifted bubbling cham- 
 pagne glasses. Martha and Lucy described as many of the 
 costumes as they could remember; when words failed 
 Martha, Lucy pulled out a pencil and pad, and sketched 
 them so that they danced and laughed before Rita's eyes. 
 They told her of the breakfast at half-past seven the next 
 morning, and of how Peggy and John Cook ran through 
 the early morning snow in their tattered costumes, and 
 pounded good-natured policemen with snowballs. 
 
 " I wish you could have gone, Rita," Lucy said. " Isn't 
 it rotten to be young? " 
 
 " Yes," said Rita. " But, oh, it's so much nicer when 
 people are so good to me! " Lucy hugged her, and when
 
 PROLOGUE 129 
 
 she had finished, Martha came over and put her arms 
 around her. It was good to have friends. 
 
 The New Year's party was soon forgotten in the weeks 
 that followed. Rita's mornings were still given, whole- 
 heartedly, to her tutor, but the afternoons were her own. 
 Sometimes her mother took her calling or shopping, but 
 she interrupted her seldom. Lilias did not understand the 
 pretty daughter who was so uninterested in clothes and 
 beaux, and so fascinated by a group of older people who 
 talked of politics and art and abstract theories as though 
 they were affairs of importance. 
 
 But there was more than talk of politics and art and 
 abstract theories. Once when a strike broke, down on the 
 East Side, the little group of Rita's friends were in the very 
 heart of it. Peggy Norris picketed; she spoke from corners 
 and told the striking girls what their legal rights were and 
 what things they could not do. At one of Martha's teas a 
 girl from the striking shop came and talked with them; 
 Helen Marvin, who worked on one of the Sunday news- 
 papers sat there drinking it all in, and the next week her 
 story appeared with a picture of Rosie Metz, and Lucy's 
 sketches of the picketing girls. Rita was thrilled; she had 
 never before been near anything of the sort, known of things 
 before she read them in the papers. 
 
 And that was only one of the things that made New York 
 the most wonderful place in the world for her. She 
 found life full; alternating between studying and living. 
 There was much that she wanted to learn, and the after- 
 noons that she was not with Martha or Lucy or Peg were 
 given up to reading huge volumes of Karl Marx, carried
 
 130 PROLOGUE 
 
 home from the library volumes which she found incred- 
 ibly hard to understand; of Nietzsche, and other philoso- 
 phers and economists whose names were tossed about in 
 the smoke of the cigarettes at Martha's. There were count- 
 less novels she found she had not read, although on that 
 score she was better prepared for argument than on any 
 other. She went to Martha's teas as though they were 
 college courses, with a pencil and notebook, and they were 
 all so young and enthusiastic and avid for learning that 
 no one smiled as she scratched down strange names and 
 words. 
 
 She read the newspapers with new interest; she talked 
 with her father, and although she had to excuse him as 
 reactionary and old-fashioned, his ideas helped formulate 
 her own. And on Thursday, she could hear all the news 
 of the week discussed by the very people who put it into 
 words for the newspapers. It was living in the heart of 
 things. 
 
 Reading had a new joy for her; at the Thursday teas 
 she could start an argument as to the relative merits of 
 Dickens and Wells, and then sink back to listen to the 
 violence she had set in motion. They were ready to argue 
 about anything, ready always with their opinions, and a 
 woe-to-him-who-disagrees expression in their eyes. Some- 
 times Rita mischievously started arguments which could 
 end nowhere, arguments that were essentially ridiculous. 
 Then when John Cook's eyes sought her own, she grinned 
 back at him delightedly. 
 
 Sometimes Lucy O'Day telephoned her, and they went 
 together to a beauty-parlor or a dog-show or some place
 
 PROLOGUE 131 
 
 where strange types of humans and animals were congre- 
 gated, and Rita sat adoringly while Lucy sketched out her 
 weekly page of drawings. Once or twice Rita suggested 
 material, and Lucy insisted on giving her a share of the 
 check. 
 
 Exactly what they thought of her, Rita did not know; it 
 was doubtful if they knew. Her mind, undeveloped though 
 it was, was keen at times; once or twice they had conceded 
 her point. And her open admiration was too warm for 
 them to find anything but pleasure in basking in it. 
 
 Rita realized always that she did not quite belong; 
 that it was more by the whim of royalty than anything else 
 that she was allowed to sit and listen, even to interrupt. 
 She was a child at a grown-up party, and she enjoyed it as 
 keenly as ever a child who watched the hands of the clock 
 creep beyond bedtime. She was learning, and she wanted 
 to learn. All her doubts and troubles of the year before 
 were lost in this new world. She was hearing of painters 
 she had never before heard of; she had thought herself 
 and had been better informed than any of the girls 
 at boarding-school because she could tell a Botticelli from 
 a Rembrandt. Now she was learning of Cezanne and 
 Picasso; where she had been original to hang Battersea 
 Bridge over her desk at boarding-school, a flaming cubist 
 portrait in her New York room was nothing out of the 
 ordinary. Except, of course, to her parents, who regarded 
 her with awe and amusement. 
 
 She was reading new poetry, and listening to new music; 
 she talked of the future of the drama she had had to 
 read Moliere, Ibsen, and a great many other playwrights
 
 132 PROLOGUE 
 
 who had been but names to her, before she dared talk with 
 any certainty about Helen Marvin's newest dramatic off- 
 spring. 
 
 Best of all, she was learning so many things that she 
 had no time to formulate opinions; she was merely cram- 
 ming her mind with names and facts and impressions, 
 and waiting unconsciously until she was away from it 
 all to sort her thoughts, and discard those she did not 
 need. 
 
 One morning David Ashley was late in arriving, and 
 when he finally came into the schoolroom he found her 
 curled up in her chair, scowling over " The Theory of the 
 Leisure Class ". 
 
 " Where'd you get that? " he asked, smiling, as she 
 pushed it aside. 
 
 " The library. There are so many things I don't know, 
 Mr. Ashley." 
 
 " Interested in it? " He stood looking down at her, his 
 blue-gray eyes twinkling. 
 
 " Yes. At least I'm interested in what all these people 
 have to say, but they're so much more interesting when 
 someone else quotes them than when you try to read them 
 yourself." 
 
 " I'll grant you that. And who quotes them? " 
 
 " Oh Martha Webb and Peg Norris " 
 
 " Peggy Norris? I didn't know you knew her. I gave 
 that young woman a course myself once mighty clever 
 girl." 
 
 " Awfully," Rita agreed. " And oh, they make me feel 
 so ignorant, Mr. Ashley. When they're talking about
 
 PROLOGUE 133 
 
 syndicalism here, it doesn't add much to the conversation 
 if I talk about the laws of Pesistratus." 
 
 " No," he agreed. " I wonder if I couldn't help you? " 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Ashley!" Rita looked up happily. "You 
 mean " 
 
 " I don't see how we can get much more into our morn- 
 ings," he said. " And of course I'm busy all afternoon now. 
 But if you could spare me two or three evenings a week? " 
 He smiled inwardly, when he thought of how jealously he 
 had been guarding those evenings of his. 
 
 "Oh, yes! Three! " Rita said enthusiastically. "And 
 you'll tell me whether government ownership would work 
 or not, and why free trade isn't better than tariffs, and 
 whether " 
 
 "Heavens! I wouldn't go that far, Rita. Nobody 
 knows if government ownership would work here " 
 
 " Peg says she knows it would," said Rita. " Of course 
 the government would have to be better, and " 
 
 " I'm glad you're interested in these things, Rita. 
 You'll probably be a voter when you're not much over 
 twenty-one, you know. Have you any choice of eve- 
 nings? " 
 
 " None at all. I'd like Thursday, though, because I go 
 to Martha's for tea every Thursday and I'm always bub- 
 bling over with things I want to ask someone. Father is 
 Father isn't interested." 
 
 "He never was," said Ashley. "We'll talk about all 
 the things you're ' bubbling over ' with, and see if we can't 
 get some of them straight. Now we'd better think about 
 Mr. Homer."
 
 134 PROLOGUE 
 
 Rita turned to her place in the book, and was ready 
 for him by the time he had sat down at his desk. 
 
 Ill 
 
 March 3rd, 1915. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 What are you doing these days? It's months since you've 
 written me. Lilias, in her last letter to Estelle, says that 
 you're "playing around with a radical crowd and taking 
 life very seriously indeed." Are you really? 
 
 And do you forsake your old friends for new so easily 
 as all that? I'd like to hear from you. There was a time 
 once when we used to give each other good advice 
 remember? Or has New York solved all your troubles? 
 Of course if you're really grown-up, I'll be all the more 
 fascinated. 
 
 Write me and apologize for not having said a word since 
 your stingy little Christmas card. Rita! 
 
 Love to you all, 
 
 ROY. 
 
 March 6th, 1915. 
 DEAR ROY: 
 
 I am ashamed. But it seems as though no one else in 
 the world was as busy as I am. Of course I don't forsake 
 my old friends. But people seem so far away from me 
 these days I'm full of ideas. 
 
 I've never worked so hard I think it's New York. At 
 first I thought New York was a play-city that was be- 
 cause of Broadway and the electric lights and the cafes.
 
 PROLOGUE 135 
 
 But now I'm learning about the people who write the plays 
 and the advertisements for them and the reviews of them 
 everything almost except the people who make the bulbs 
 themselves. And I'm learning that they are probably work- 
 ing under rotten labor conditions, and that probably little 
 children who should be in school are growing pale and thin 
 wrapping up the bulbs or something. 
 
 And the cafes I'm meeting the people who design the 
 costumes for the cabarets and paint the wall decorations. 
 And learning about waiters, and how the managers don't 
 pay them enough salary and so the public has to make up 
 the rest of it in tips. 
 
 Oh, I'm learning a lot, Roy. 
 
 I'm happy, I guess. I haven't time to think about such an 
 unimportant person as me. It was when I was very young 
 and ignorant that I used to bother. The world is so big. 
 Of course I still hate being young sixteen is really no age 
 at all to be, Roy. But I have so much to think of and learn 
 that sometimes I hate to think how old I'm growing and how 
 ignorant I am. 
 
 This isn't a long letter, because I promised Peggy Norris 
 to go over to her house this afternoon. We're starting a 
 theater, a place where good dramatic art can be put before 
 the public. Good stuff can't get on Broadway, you know; 
 you have to have a pull to get there. So we're all working 
 awfully hard. 
 
 I will write again honestly. It was awfully nice to hear 
 from you. 
 
 As ever, 
 
 RITA.
 
 136 PROLOGUE 
 
 March nth, 1915. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 Oh, dear me! I understand why you haven't written, my 
 child. What chance has a mere human against an Idea? 
 Or Art you do spell it with a capital, don't you? 
 
 Rita, my dear, I almost wept when you told me how the 
 electric lights on Broadway were being hoisted up by pale 
 little children who should be in school. Why don't you do 
 something about it? And the poor, poor waiters! Isn't it 
 awful the way the wealthy arrogant public like me insists 
 on plying them with tips that they're so reluctant to take? 
 Rita, I do think you should find time to do something about 
 that! You ought to, you know. 
 
 I'm sorry you hadn't time to write about such an unim- 
 portant person as yourself I used to love hearing about 
 Rita Moreland, and I really used to think that she was quite 
 important. 
 
 Forgive an old man his sport, Rita dear, and write me 
 again. Your letter was charming. 
 
 Love to you, 
 
 ROY. 
 
 Rita did not answer Roy's second letter. 
 
 IV 
 
 Spring had broken as suddenly on New York as winter 
 had followed fall. The snow had hardly melted before the 
 gray trees in the parks began sending up green shoots, the 
 sky was softer and more pale in its blue, the Fifth Avenue 
 ^busses were crowded at night.
 
 PROLOGUE 137 
 
 The windows of the house were thrown open to the warm 
 evening, and Lilias was stretched on the day-bed reading 
 a magazine. Across the room, Webster Moreland was play- 
 ing solitaire, pausing thoughtfully before each card was 
 turned over; Rita, in a straight-backed chair drawn close 
 to the table, was reading and making notes in a huge blank- 
 book. Lilias looked at them and yawned; suddenly she 
 hurled her magazine across the floor. Her skin was white 
 above the red folds of her negligee; Rita, as she looked up 
 suddenly, thought her very beautiful. 
 
 " Well, I suppose we'll be going to Larchborough soon," 
 she said. 
 
 " Pretty soon," said Webster Moreland. " I've been 
 thinking about it lately." 
 
 Rita looked at them, startled. 
 
 " You know, I rather want to go this year," Lilias con- 
 tinued. " I must be growing old. The thought of all 
 that shade and fresh air to bask in and parties at night, 
 with the lake rippling against the shore " She 
 crossed her hands behind her head and leaned back 
 luxuriously. 
 
 Rita let her book slip to her lap, and stared out the open 
 window. " Larchborough !" she said. Larchborough! It 
 meant swimming again, tennis, all the fun of out-of-doors. 
 Larchborough. It meant leaving Martha and Lucy and Peg 
 and John. It meant leaving New York! " But " She 
 hesitated, considering. 
 
 " But what, kid? " her mother asked. 
 
 " But Fve got so much to do," Rita answered, " I'd 
 forgotten about Larchborough. I mean why, I don't see
 
 138 PROLOGUE 
 
 how I can go, Mother. And now Peg and Martha and the 
 rest of us are talking of starting a theater and " 
 
 " I guess they can get along without you, Rita," Lilias 
 said. " Of course those girls have been awfully nice to take 
 you in the way they have, but after all, you're only a 
 kid." 
 
 Rita looked at her mother speculatively; she did not 
 understand. 
 
 " They'll be going away, too, won't they? " her father 
 asked. His gaze rested on her for a moment. " You need 
 the country, Rita. You need a lot of sun and fresh air 
 you're pale. I think David's been making you study too 
 hard." 
 
 " Rot," said Rita. " But" She was unable to bring 
 her thoughts back to her book. 
 
 The next Thursday she hurried breathlessly over to 
 Martha's. It was decided ; they were going to Larchborough 
 in three weeks. And she had to go; her father and mother 
 had both said firmly that she could not remain in New York. 
 She did not know what Martha and Lucy would think of her 
 for deserting them when the theater needed all the hands 
 there were to get it ready for a fall opening. 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " Martha called, as she burst into the room. 
 " Come over here! We've taken a house for the theater 
 and Lucy has just finished the plans for the stage. She and 
 Jim are going to do it together Jim's a shark on amateur 
 carpentry. Won't this be dear? " 
 
 Rita flung off her coat and ran over to the couch to inspect 
 the drawings. 
 
 " We're going to have a peacock blue curtain," Lucy said.
 
 PROLOGUE 139 
 
 " Martie and I can make it we're going to mix the dye our- 
 selves. And " 
 
 " We're going to Larchborough in three weeks! " Rita 
 interrupted and looked at them tragically. 
 
 " Lucky kid! " said Lucy. 
 
 " L-lucky! " repeated Rita. 
 
 " I should say you are," Martha agreed. " Larchborough! 
 Doesn't it sound shady and cool, Lucy? " 
 
 " But" Rita looked at them blankly. " But I don't 
 want to leave New York! " she said. 
 
 Martha laughed. " My dear, New York's a fascinating 
 place and all that," she said. " But New York in summer! 
 No! And once again no! You don't suppose we'd be 
 here if we didn't have to be? " 
 
 Rita looked at them incredulously. " But the theater ! 
 Just when we're starting in and everything! " 
 
 Lucy laughed, too. " My dear child, the theater's going 
 to be loads of fun, and help us to bear up a little under the 
 heat. But you don't suppose we'd stay in a hot city work- 
 ing, if we could go to the country, do you? " 
 
 Rita was silent. Larchborough . . . She looked about 
 the studio. It probably would be hot in summer. But it 
 was New York. It was everything that was interesting and 
 thrilling. 
 
 " Peg and Jim are going away for a month," said Martha. 
 " And of course Lucy and I will get some sort of vacations. 
 Take your whole summers while you can, Rita. After you're 
 working, you won't be able to have them." 
 
 " I suppose not." Rita felt her lips trembling; it was 
 hard to be offered congratulations, when you wanted and
 
 140 PROLOGUE 
 
 had expected sympathy. " I've only come in for a moment. 
 I I've got to go to the library." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry," Martha said. " You'll be in next 
 Thursday, though, if we don't see you before? " 
 
 " Yes." Rita put on her coat and hat slowly. " Good- 
 bye," she said at the door. 
 
 " Good-bye, dear." 
 
 She walked along Twenty-second Street sadly, and up 
 the Avenue. There was no use in going home; she did not 
 want to see people. The sunshine hung softly over the tops 
 of the buildings; there was a smell of spring in the air. But 
 Rita did not care. It was the first Thursday that she had 
 not stayed at Martha's for tea, and it looked quite as though 
 tea would be served all the same. True, three or four times 
 it had been served without Martha, and once Peg and Rita 
 going up the stairs together had found a note on the door 
 explaining that neither Martha nor Lucy could be there. 
 The samovar was ready and the tea-things in the kitchen- 
 ette. A great many people had flocked there that day, and 
 Rita had pretended to herself that it was she who lived in 
 the little apartment, that she was the hostess whom all 
 these people had come to see. 
 
 She was lonely. At Fifty-ninth Street, as she started to 
 turn into the park, she heard her name called. It was Lloyd 
 Evans, swinging along, and looking quite proud of his new 
 suit. Rita had not seen him for months. 
 
 " What's the matter with you? " he asked, as she reached 
 her. " You look frightfully downcast." 
 
 " Nothing," said Rita. 
 
 " Going anywhere? "
 
 PROLOGUE 141 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Neither am I. Shall we go in the park and feed the 
 swans or something? " 
 
 " I don't think they're out yet," Rita said dully. " If 
 you like, we can see." 
 
 " Oh, I'm not so crazy about feeding the swans as all 
 that," he said. " What's the matter? " 
 
 " Nothing," said Rita again. If only he wouldn't ask 
 her. She glanced at him, and the evident sympathy in his 
 face made her want to cry. " Oh, it's just just that we're 
 going to Larchborough and I don't want to go and I don't 
 know whether I like New York or not and and I wish 
 I was dead! " 
 
 "Well! " Lloyd said. He looked at her for a moment. 
 " We might go in the Plaza and get some tea." 
 
 Rita looked at him doubtfully. 
 
 " In fact what you need is food and drink real drink. 
 Come along." 
 
 They turned back, and Rita followed him silently. After 
 she had eaten two sandwiches and sipped her tall Tom 
 Collins, Rita felt suddenly more at peace with the world. 
 
 " Of course you're much too young to drink," he scolded 
 her, " and I suppose Lilias would kill me, but if ever any- 
 one was in need of the demon rum, you were. No, keep 
 still, Rita, and eat. After you've eaten that plate of sand- 
 wiches, I'm going to get you an ice and some little cakes. 
 Oh, of course I can't afford it don't try to interrupt. I 
 got fired last week, but I don't care. I " 
 
 " I'm sorry I was so cross, Lloyd," Rita interrupted. 
 
 T
 
 142 PROLOGUE 
 
 He laughed. " Good Lord, aren't we all sometimes? I 
 never saw you with a grouch before. You really might tell 
 me what's the matter now." 
 
 " Nothing really," Rita said. " But oh, I hate the thought 
 of Larchborough and silly young boys and girls. And now 
 I hate the thought of New York and and people here. I 
 wish I belonged somewhere. I don't belong here or in Larch- 
 borough oh, do you suppose I'll be young forever, 
 Lloyd? " 
 
 Lloyd did not smile; Rita liked him because he took her 
 seriously even when she sounded most childish. " You're 
 nearly seventeen," he said. " And then soon you'll be 
 eighteen. That's not a half bad age." 
 
 " N-no," Rita admitted. " But it seems so long to wait." 
 
 " You're grown up enough now to be perfectly charming," 
 he said. " You're such a serious-minded little party, though. 
 Why don't you turn those nice sympathetic eyes of yours 
 from the poor working classes to some of us poor males? " 
 
 Rita smiled. " Perhaps I was interested in a male who 
 was interested in the poor working classes," she said. It 
 was, of course, a lie, but she looked very charming when she 
 said it, and he laughed. 
 
 " I don't think much of him if he lets you wander alone 
 and disconsolate on a lovely spring day at tea-time." 
 
 " But if he hadn't," Rita said, hoping that Lloyd would 
 not ask who " he " was, " I shouldn't have met you and be 
 having such a pleasant time right now." 
 
 He laughed. " Now you're acting like a human being 
 again," he said, and Rita looked at him quizzically. Was 
 Lloyd's idea of a human being a person who wasted good
 
 PROLOGUE 143 
 
 conversation in what her mother would probably consider 
 flirting? 
 
 "I feel like a human being," she said; "An awfully 
 human human being." 
 
 " It's the spring," said Lloyd. " Let's get a hansom- 
 cab and trot about in the park and enjoy it." 
 
 " All right," Rita said, and when finally they stopped at 
 her house she felt light-hearted again. 
 
 She sang as she changed her dress for dinner, and chat- 
 tered with her father about Larchborough all evening, while 
 Karl Marx lay neglected on the reading table. 
 
 After all, there were some advantages in being young.
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 THE summer at Larchborough passed all too quickly. In 
 August when Rita and Bobby were rowing home from the 
 moving-picture show, a sharp wind blew from beyond the 
 hills across the lake to remind them that autumn was com- 
 ing again. Rita felt a tinge of regret at the thought of 
 leaving Larchborough; she wondered, half sadly, whether 
 she would always hate parting so. It had been wonderful 
 to forget all the complexities of life, to forget to think, in 
 the glory of living in the summer-time. For more than three 
 months she had hardly thought of New York. She had 
 talked of it, of course; even boasted a little to Bobby and 
 the other boys and girls of the wonderful city she had been 
 so much a part of. It was romantic to think of it all in 
 retrospect, to talk of the teas at Martha's and the after- 
 noons at Peg's and to forget the long hours in which she 
 had read dull books and pamphlets. New York seemed 
 like going back to school. She shuddered slightly. 
 
 " Cold? " Bobby asked tenderly. 
 
 Rita smiled. " No," she said. " The wind smells sc* 
 of fall. I was just thinking that soon we'll be leaving 
 Larchborough." 
 
 " You'll be going back to New York." 
 
 " Yes. But I'm going to miss Larchborough." 
 
 144
 
 PROLOGUE 145 
 
 Bobby feathered his oars, and the boat drifted silently 
 across the moon-lit water. " Will you miss me, Rita? " 
 
 Rita looked at him and smiled faintly. Bobby was a 
 nice boy, grown tall and brown again with another summer. 
 
 " Yes, I'll miss you," she said. It was not Bobby that 
 she would miss, of course; it was the things that Bobby 
 represented. New York meant serious things wonderful, 
 but . . . She sighed, and Bobby's sigh answered her. 
 
 " You know you're awfully pretty, Rita." 
 
 " Am I? I'm glad." In New York it did not matter that 
 she was pretty; in New York they cared only about minds. 
 Larchborough she did hate to leave Larchborough. 
 
 " We're growing up now, Rita, aren't we? " 
 
 Growing up. Perhaps that would solve things. She was 
 older; she was past seventeen now. Peg Norris had been 
 only twenty the year before. 
 
 " Aren't we, Rita? " 
 
 "Yes, Bobby." 
 
 " I suppose some day we'll be getting married and all 
 that." 
 
 " I suppose we will." Marriage. Rita had never 
 thought much about marriage in New York. Peg and Jim 
 were married, but they did not seem any different from the 
 others. Marriage. . . Rita looked at Bobby thought- 
 fully, and wondered why he flushed. She had not been 
 thinking of Bobby. 
 
 The boat grazed gently against the dock; he drew in his 
 oars. 
 
 " Want to want to walk for a while, Rita? " 
 
 Rita hesitated. Walking would be nice. But there was
 
 146 PROLOGUE 
 
 still that touch of autumn in the wind, and her mind was 
 filled with thoughts of New York. " I I want to think, 
 Bobby," she said. 
 
 " All right. I I've a lot to think about, too." 
 
 " Have you, Bobby? " He was very earnest as he stood 
 beside her; Bobby was really growing to be a man. Rita 
 felt a sudden tenderness toward him. She felt positively 
 maternal; it was such a short time since Bobby had been 
 only a funny little boy with freckles and cut fingers. " Good- 
 night, dear," she said tenderly, and started up the path. 
 
 Bobby stood, almost rooted to the path, watching her. 
 "Rita!" he gasped finally. "Oh, Rita!" He hurried 
 after her and took her hand. He was panting, as though he 
 had run a long way. " Say Rita did you really mean 
 that? " 
 
 " Mean what? " 
 
 " That what you said? " 
 
 " What, Bobby? " She stopped and regarded him gravely. 
 
 " You said ' dear '." He choked over the word. 
 
 As Rita looked at him, his face bent towards hers, his 
 eyes shining, she did not know whether she wanted to cry 
 or to laugh. Bobby was such a nice, such a human boy. 
 Her eyes were suddenly misty. " Oh, Bobby, you are a 
 dear ! " she said, and pulled his head down, kissed his cheek 
 softly, before she ran up the path and left him staring 
 happily after her. 
 
 II 
 
 Rita had been in New York for a week. The next Mon- 
 day David Ashley would come, and the routine of life would
 
 PROLOGUE 147 
 
 begin again. She sat at the window, wondering whether she 
 was sorry or glad. She had not seen any of her friends; 
 she had been too busy unpacking and shopping. There were 
 weeks of dress-making ahead of her, all sorts of things to 
 be done before she would have much time to herself. The 
 telephone rang suddenly, and she hurried out into the hall. 
 
 " This is Miss Moreland," she said quietly. And then, 
 " Fran! Fran Woodward! Where in the world how did 
 you know I was in town? " The color rose in her cheeks 
 and her eyes sparkled. " Oh, I'd love to! Now? What 
 time is it? All right just as soon as I can get dressed." 
 She clicked the receiver back on the hook, and hurried up 
 the stairs. 
 
 " Who was that, Rita? " Lilias called from her room. 
 
 " Fran Woodward don't you remember I went to school 
 with her? She's just heard that I was back in town and 
 wants me to come over for luncheon. You don't mind, 
 Mother? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 " You're a duck." Rita rushed into her room, and threw 
 open her closet door. " Oh, Mother, be a dear? " 
 
 " What do you want to wear, Rita? " 
 
 " Your cape." She hurried back to her mother's room. 
 Lilias- was lying on her bed, with a copy of Vogue in her 
 hand. 
 
 " Don't you think my red velvet will be pretty made this 
 way, Rita? " 
 
 Rita sat on the edge of the bed and glanced at the model 
 her mother was studying. " Heavenly. You're a dear to 
 let me take your cape. I wanted to wear that green dress
 
 148 PROLOGUE 
 
 and I haven't a decent coat." She pulled the soft brown 
 cape from her mother's closet and put in on. 
 
 Lilias glanced at her idly. " It's very becoming to you 
 I guess I'll give it to you, Rita." 
 
 " Oh, Mother! " 
 
 " Why don't you try my little brown hat? " Lilias sat up 
 on the bed and thrust her feet into scarlet satin mules. 
 " Sit down at my table, Rita." She pulled a veil, heavy 
 with perfume, from one of the satin-covered boxes and fas- 
 tened it around her daughter's head. " There! Don't you 
 look grown-up? " 
 
 " Oh, Mother! May I wear it? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Rita flung her arms about Lilias' neck and kissed her. 
 " You are such a darling, Mother." 
 
 Lilias went back to her bed. "I'm glad to see you show 
 some interest in clothes, Rita. I was afraid last winter that 
 you were going in for dress-reform." 
 
 "Mother! " Rita laughed and hurried back to her own 
 room to stand before the mirror and admire herself. The 
 cape came almost to her ankles and was edged with heavy 
 silk fringe; Lilias had set the small hat a little at one side 
 of her head. And the veil was exquisite. Rita snatched her 
 hand-mirror from her bureau to admire the way it empha- 
 sized her small nose, her wide green eyes. She smiled as she 
 looked at her reflection ; she was so tall now. She was really 
 growing up. Why, she might be at least twenty almost 
 old! She turned and pirouetted before the glass until a 
 glance at the clock showed her that she must hurry. 
 
 Unconsciously she shortened her gait as she walked along
 
 PROLOGUE 149 
 
 the street, and hailed a 'bus. She looked so pretty! Her 
 cheeks grew pink as the woman in the seat opposite her 
 surveyed her clothes. She was chic! 
 
 At Lincoln Square, she tripped gaily off the 'bus and 
 hurried along Sixty-seventh Street to the apartment house 
 that edged the park. 
 
 " Miss Woodward," she said importantly to the boy at 
 the telephone. She stepped into the elevator daintily, hold- 
 ing up her cape with her white gloved hand. The door of 
 the apartment opposite the elevator opened as she stepped 
 out. " Fran! " She flung her arms about her friend, and 
 kissed her again and again. 
 
 " My Lord, Rita, I'm glad to see you! " Fran drew 
 her into the room, and they sank down on the couch, their 
 arms still about each other. "How pretty you've grown! 
 My dear, you look as old as I do! " 
 
 Rita flushed happily. " Sit still, Fran, and let me look 
 at you! " she said. She pushed Fran away from her, and 
 sat staring. 
 
 Fran too, had dressed for the occasion. She was in a 
 tea-gown of oyster white satin, with a string of white coral 
 beads about her neck. Her skin was almost as white as 
 her dress, and her lips and hair were a vivid red and black 
 contrast. 
 
 " Have I changed? " she asked. 
 
 " You're ever so much prettier," said Rita. " Oh, you're 
 lovely, Fran! " 
 
 Fran laughed. Rita hated to take off her cape and the 
 small hat and veil, because she looked so much younger in 
 her last summer's green dress. She made a face at herself
 
 150 PROLOGUE 
 
 in the mirror as she stood arranging her hair, and then 
 pounced suddenly on a Chinese coat of yellow brocade that 
 was thrown over one of the chairs. 
 
 " Let me wear it, Fran? " 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 Rita slipped the coat over her shoulders and stood admir- 
 ing the small round mirrors that edged it. 
 
 " It's really an old one," said Fran. " I like it especially." 
 
 Rita stood looking around the room. It was as much 
 suited to Fran as the white negligee she wore; papered and 
 painted in pale cream color that was interrupted by vivid 
 Bakst prints and flaming posters. The furniture was of a 
 light wood, upholstered in gay brocades, draped with bright 
 pieces of silk and Chinese embroidery. On a brilliant green 
 table, a copper bowl of incense was sending up blue-gray 
 smoke spirals; above it hung a mirror framed with heavy 
 Chinese gilded wood that gave the glass the effect of being 
 as deep as water in a well. 
 
 " The place is lovely, Fran! " Rita said. 
 
 " Isn't it though? I've just got it in order. Dad got 
 married after all, you know, and he was so happy that he 
 raised my allowance. And now I've got an engagement." 
 
 " An engagement! You mean on the stage? Really? " 
 Rita sat down on the puffy black velvet cushion at Fran's 
 feet, and stared up at her adoringly. 
 
 " Of course, silly. I was playing in vaudeville all last 
 spring, you know." 
 
 " Buf I didn't! " Rita said ecstatically. " How wonder- 
 ful! " 
 
 " It wasn't wonderful," Fran said. " But it was training.
 
 PROLOGUE 151 
 
 And now I have a small part in a regular show and I'm 
 going to understudy Leslie Lorraine." 
 
 " Fran! " Rita's eyes grew wider and rounder as she 
 watched her friend. 
 
 " Oh, I'm coming up in the world," Fran said, with a short 
 laugh. " I oh, there's the bell." 
 
 Rita watched her as she walked gracefully towards the 
 door; the white satin showed the slim lines of her figure; 
 she looked very beautiful and romantic to Rita. 
 
 " Lloyd, my dear. I am glad to see you. Wasn't sure 
 you'd come. I want you to meet Rita Moreland. She " 
 
 " We know each other," Lloyd Evans said. He walked, 
 smiling, toward Rita. " How are you, Rita? " 
 
 " Can't you see? " she asked. " Don't you think I'm 
 brown and fat and healthy looking? " 
 
 " You're brown and lovely looking," he said. " And now," 
 as Fran sat down on one of the puffy pillows, "will 
 you kindly tell me how you happen to know each 
 other? " 
 
 " But we've known each other for ages! " Rita said. 
 
 " We went to school together," said Fran. 
 
 " Went to school together ! " Lloyd repeated. 
 
 Fran pouted prettily. " He thinks I'm at least forty- 
 five, you know," she said to Rita, looking at Lloyd while 
 she spoke. "And he hasn't even the good grace to conceal 
 it." 
 
 " Not at all," Lloyd said. " But that is" 
 
 The bell rang again. 
 
 " Thank God for that," he said fervently, and smiled at 
 Rita. But Rita felt suddenly feminine.
 
 152 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I think you're unflattering, too," she said, mimicking 
 Fran's pout. " Do you think I belong in the school-room, 
 or did you think " 
 
 " Rita please! " he protested. " Fow're not going to start 
 with these female ways! " 
 
 " Why not? " Rita asked. " You don't expect me to be 
 masculine, do you? " 
 
 Lloyd looked at her steadily for a moment, and Rita did 
 not lower her eyes. " Not now, my dear," he said at length. 
 " Perhaps I did once." 
 
 Fran was standing at the door, talking with her third 
 guest. He was a tall, blond man, with many teeth which 
 gleamed as he talked. 
 
 " The flowers are lovely," Fran said, and Rita's gaze 
 rested for a moment on the translucent bowl of alabaster, 
 heaped with yellow and lavender orchids. " Rita dear, I 
 want you to meet Edward Sibley." 
 
 Rita held out her hand, and now she had learned not to 
 rise like a small girl. Mr. Sibley bowed long over her hand, 
 and Rita snatched it away a little hurriedly. 
 
 " Rita and I went to school together," Fran repeated, as 
 though there were some distinction in the fact. After all, 
 Fran was not more than twenty. " Rita is Webster More- 
 land's daughter the architect, you know." 
 
 " Oh? " Mr. Sibley looked at Rita and smiled. " I 
 have met your mother, Miss Moreland. A very lovely 
 woman." 
 
 " Mother is lovely," Rita agreed. She disliked Sibley's 
 smile. " Father and I think she's the loveliest woman in 
 the world," she added a little defiantly.
 
 PROLOGUE 153 
 
 Sibley smiled again and nodded. Rita wondered what he 
 would do if she threw a pillow at him. 
 
 A small Japanese appeared at the heavy white curtains 
 that led into the dining-room. "Luncheon, Madame," he 
 said, and Fran rose. 
 
 The dining-room was even more lovely than the living- 
 room. The walls were covered with a gilded cloth of coarse 
 weave, and the wood-work was a shiny green that looked like 
 lacquer. The eight-sided table was of lacquer and the small 
 chairs that were drawn up to it. Rita looked at Fran 
 curiously. It was strange to think of the girl she had 
 known at boarding-school as the mistress of this exquisite 
 apartment. 
 
 There was a cocktail at each place, resting on a small 
 lacquer plate. Rita had not intended to drink hers, but as 
 she saw Lloyd's eyes watching her curiously, she lifted her 
 glass deliberately, and drank with the rest. 
 
 The luncheon conversation was delightful. For the most 
 part it was about the stage, or rather about the people who 
 played on it. Rita listened excitedly. This was a new New 
 York, a New York that was as gay as Broadway and as 
 intimate as the teas at Martha Webb's. 
 
 " Miss Moreland is not in the profession, is she? " Sibley 
 asked Fran, and Rita shook her head. 
 
 " Oh, I hadn't thought of it before," she said sud- 
 denly. "What ever happened to the little theater Peg 
 Norris and Martha Webb and Lucy O'Day were start- 
 ing? " 
 
 " I hadn't heard of it," Fran said. 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Sibley thoughtfully. " Downtown.
 
 154 PROLOGUE 
 
 All sorts of highbrow stuff blank verse and that rot. 
 They're opening in a few weeks, I believe." 
 
 " John Cook has a play," Lloyd put in. 
 
 Fran threw back her head and laughed. " Johnny Cook! " 
 she said. " Oh, let's make up a party and go down and see 
 them. I'd adore to see a play of Johnny's. He's such a 
 serious-minded old donkey. Let's. You'll come, Rita? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I wouldn't miss it," said Sibley. " I'll get seats, Fran." 
 
 "Oh, it will be delicious! " Fran said, and Rita felt 
 suddenly uncomfortable at her friend's laughter. She did 
 not want to go down to laugh at the little theater she had 
 seen born. But perhaps they weren't going to laugh at it. 
 " You'll come here first for supper," said Fran. " Mr. 
 Sibley, can't you induce that southern aunt of yours to 
 send us up another ham? Nothing like saving money, you 
 know, Rita." 
 
 Rita avoided Lloyd's eyes. 
 
 " Sure I'll get her to," Sibley agreed. " And I'll bring 
 some wine." 
 
 " Splendid! " said Fran. 
 
 They finished luncheon, and went back into the living- 
 room. 
 
 " I've got to hurry along, Fran," Mr. Sibley said, looking 
 at his thin gold watch. " You're having dinner with me 
 tonight? " 
 
 " If you like. Good-bye." Fran held out her hand, and 
 Sibley closed the door behind him quietly. " I don't like 
 that man much," she said, looking after him speculatively, 
 " He rather hates himself, don't you think, Lloyd? "
 
 PROLOGUE 155 
 
 " Oh, he's all right," Lloyd said. " I've got to go, too, 
 Fran. You must remember that I'm a working man these 
 days." 
 
 "Poor little Lloyd!" Fran rose and stood leaning 
 against the black velvet couch. " You'll stay for a while, 
 Rita? I want to talk with you." 
 
 Rita nodded. 
 
 " Good-bye," Lloyd said, taking her hand for a moment. 
 " Good-bye, Fran." His voice changed almost impercep- 
 tibly as he turned to his hostess; Rita wondered if she had 
 imagined it. Her loyalty to her friend was suffering as 
 Fran walked out to the elevator with Lloyd, stood talking 
 with him. Fran seemed almost cheap. She shook the 
 thought out of her head impatiently. She was a silly little 
 prig. There was no reason why Mr. Sibley should not bring 
 ham and wine that he was going to partake of, even if 
 Fran did not like him. After all, people were differ- 
 ent. 
 
 " I'm glad they're gone," Fran said, and it was the old 
 Fran of boarding-school who curled up at one corner of the 
 broad couch. " Men are such a bore but of course we 
 couldn't get along without them." 
 
 " No," Rita agreed, although it seemed to her that she 
 had got along very well without them. Men never came 
 to see her. Of course she had gone about with them a little, 
 but that had been different. 
 
 " What are you doing, Rita? " 
 
 " Still tutoring for college. I enter next year." 
 
 "Heavens! Still in school. Don't you hate it, Rita? " 
 
 Rita looked at her friend doubtfully. "No," she said.
 
 156 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I'm interested in it. There isn't anything I want more to 
 do." 
 
 " But there are so many things in life," said Fran. " Oh, 
 I don't know. I'd like to study a bit, too. I am studying 
 for that matter. French and voice." 
 
 " Really? " Rita folded her hands about her knees. 
 " What for? " 
 
 " Oh, French just for the impression it makes, I guess. 
 It may come in handy some day. Voice for musical comedy 
 in case I can't get away with drama." 
 
 " Oh." 
 
 Fran lighted a cigarette thoughtfully. " Smoke, kid? " 
 
 Rita shook her head. " I promised my tutor I wouldn't," 
 she said. "Last year. Not until I'm older." 
 
 " Your tutor? " Fran sat up and looked at her. " What's 
 he like? " 
 
 "Oh, he's darling," Rita said enthusiastically. "Tall 
 and sort of nice grayish hair and blue eyes. And, Fran, I 
 simply adore studying with him." 
 
 " In love with you? " Fran asked. 
 
 " In love with me? " Rita repeated. " Of course not." 
 
 Fran laughed. " Well, it was a perfectly natural ques- 
 tion, wasn't it? When did you meet Evans? " 
 
 " Lloyd? At Mother's last year. I saw him occasionally 
 last winter. He's very nice, I think." 
 
 " Oh yes," Fran admitted. " Sort of serious-minded 
 individual." 
 
 " Oh, but I don't think so at all! " Rita said. " Why" 
 She stopped suddenly, wondering what Fran would think of 
 Martha or Peg.
 
 PROLOGUE 157 
 
 " Oh, he's all right," said Fran carelessly. " I think I 
 just have a grouch against him because he doesn't fall in 
 love with me." 
 
 " But do you want him to? " 
 
 Fran leaned over and pounded her cigarette vigorously. 
 " Oh, no more than anyone else. People should fall in 
 love with one, though, don't you think? " 
 
 " Should they? " Rita thought about it gravely, while 
 Fran watched her, smiling. She thought of Roy curious, 
 she had not thought of him since his last letter. And 
 Bobby ..." Why, I suppose they should," she admitted. 
 " I just hadn't thought about it before." 
 
 Fran was silent, and Rita's thoughts unraveled slowly. 
 Roy and Bobby. And Lloyd. Lloyd? She smiled sud- 
 denly. " Oh, Fran, I do like you! " she said. " And you're 
 so pretty." They sat quietly again for a moment, and Rita 
 glanced at her wrist-watch. " I've got to go, Fran. I'm 
 so sorry. But I forgot all about it. Mother and I 
 were going shopping." She put her hat and cape on 
 quickly. 
 
 " You'll come over again soon, dear, won't you? " Fran 
 asked. " You're about the only girl-friend I ever had. And 
 it's nice to have a woman around and to be able to be 
 natural and not worry whether your nose is shiny or not, 
 isn't it? " 
 
 " Why yes," said Rita. 
 
 The park looked so alluring as she stepped out to the 
 sidewalk that she wandered through it and across to Fifth 
 Avenue before she remembered that she must meet her 
 mother. And she suddenly realized that she wanted many
 
 158 PROLOGUE 
 
 things a negligee she had never had a really pretty negli- 
 gee and some French-heeled slippers, and and a lipstick! 
 
 Ill 
 
 Rita was having luncheon with Martha and Lucy at a 
 small tea-room a few doors from Broadway. It was good 
 to see them again, good to learn of the crowd and what they 
 were doing. 
 
 " Any scandal or anything? " Rita asked, smiling, when 
 they had paused breathlessly. 
 
 " Scandal? " Martha said. 
 
 Rita laughed at her surprise. Scandal belonged with 
 Fran's friends, not with the crowd. That was the trouble 
 with Martha's teas conversation was too impersonal, on 
 too high a plane to be continued indefinitely. " Just gossip, 
 I meant." 
 
 " But I've been telling you what we've been doing. You 
 knew that John Cook was engaged? " 
 
 " No! To whom? " 
 
 " Oh some girl from uptown. We haven't seen much 
 of her. We're so busy, Rita." 
 
 Yes, they were busy. Perhaps that was it. The lazi- 
 ness of the Larchborough summer was still on Rita; the fun 
 of rowing on the lake, of listening to Bobby's chatter. 
 
 " This is your last year of tutoring, isn't it? " asked Lucy. 
 
 " If I study hard. I was terribly behind, you see 
 those three years at boarding-school didn't teach me any- 
 thing." 
 
 " They never do. Lord, education " Martha lifted her
 
 PROLOGUE 159 
 
 hands and dropped them wearily on the table. " Which 
 reminds me that we're having a meeting on the luncheon 
 club tomorrow, and Elsie Wagner is going to talk on educa- 
 tion for women. Want to come? " 
 
 " I'd love it," Rita said. 
 
 In the dingy restaurant where the club met the next day, 
 it was strange to think of Fran's exquisite apartment. It 
 belonged in another world. Rita listened to the speaker 
 attentively, but her thoughts wandered towards the new 
 clothes she was having made, towards the dance to which 
 Fran was taking her in a few days. There was a burst of 
 applause, and a sudden babel of voices. The women crowded 
 about Miss Wagner, with their questions and appreciation, 
 and Rita joined Martha and Lucy. 
 
 She paused at a mirror to adjust her veil, and powder her 
 nose, and Martha laughed. 
 
 " You're getting to be a regular flapper, Rita," she 
 said. 
 
 Rita flushed resentfully. Martha would be considerably 
 improved by a little powder, she thought, and then felt 
 rather ashamed of herself. 
 
 " Tea on Thursday still? " she asked. 
 
 " Every Thursday," said Lucy. " It's fun to have you 
 back with us, Rita." 
 
 " It's fun to be back," Rita said. But she wondered, as 
 she walked quickly towards her house, whether she was back, 
 back to the New York and the interest of the year before. 
 She had changed, slightly perhaps, but still changed, and 
 now Fran and the daintiness of her apartment, the charm of 
 her clothes, was offering an alternative to the old conversa-
 
 160 PROLOGUE 
 
 tions of the Thursday teas. " I wonder if I am back," she 
 said to herself thoughtfully. 
 
 IV 
 
 Rita stood in the center of her room looking at the dis- 
 order it had taken almost an hour to create. The sleeves 
 of her blue middy blouse were rolled up over her small arms, 
 and there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. She had 
 taken all the pictures from her walls and heaped them on 
 her bed; her bureau and shelves were bare. Lilias, walking 
 through the hall, glanced in, and stopped, horrified, at the 
 door. 
 
 " Rita Moreland, whatever in the world are you doing? " 
 
 Rita turned and smiled ruefully. " I don't like my room, 
 Mother. I wish I could have it repapered." 
 
 " Repapered? But that yellow paper was put on last 
 year." Lilias looked at her curiously. 
 
 " Yes. But I didn't choose it. Mother, don't you think 
 a woman's bedroom should represent her? " 
 
 Lilias pushed aside some books and sat down on the 
 edge of the bed and laughed. " Rita, my dear, if you can 
 make any room represent you, I'll give you unlimited money 
 to do it with," she said, and began laughing again. 
 
 Rita laughed too. " I'll take you up on it, though, 
 Mother," she said. " Let me do what I like with my room 
 let me buy some furniture and if it doesn't represent me 
 when I'm through, I'll pay you back out of my allowance." 
 
 Lilias was still laughing. " I think it's an unfair bar- 
 gain, Rita," she said, " because the good Lord alone knows
 
 PROLOGUE 161 
 
 what you are I don't. You've changed so extraordinarily 
 since last summer. But go ahead. How much money will 
 it take? " 
 
 Rita hesitated. She would have liked to add it up, but 
 her mother might change her mind. " Most a hundred 
 dollars," she said. 
 
 " I'll give you a hundred and fifty, Rita," said Lilias. 
 " This is too good to miss." 
 
 " Give it to me," said Rita, holding out her hand. 
 
 Lilias put her hands to her head. " Come in my room 
 and I'll write out a check," she said weakly. 
 
 The painters and paperers worked for a week. No one was 
 allowed in Rita's room, and when finally the workmen left, 
 she hurried upstairs to survey their work. The walls were 
 papered in gray and silver stripes, and the woodwork was 
 Rita's favorite green, the green of her eyes, the green that 
 was most becoming to her red hair. Her bed had been dis- 
 carded, the spring and mattress laid on a low framework 
 that made a most successful couch. A round tea-table 
 was at one side of the bed; across the room a broad gray 
 table filled the space beneath her book-cases, and a green 
 quill pen shivered in a bronze ink-well. 
 
 Her dressing-table crowded the room; its top was littered 
 with new green glass bottles and boxes, and its one drawer 
 was lined with a long, mattress-like sachet pad. Her bureau 
 was hidden in her closet, which was luckily large. The few 
 pictures she hung were suspended by Chinese cords with 
 fluttering tassels, and the precious encyclopedia which her 
 father had given her the Christmas before was crowded be- 
 tween her dressing-table and her work-desk.
 
 162 PROLOGUE 
 
 " You can come and see my room tonight after supper," 
 she told her mother and father that evening. They laughed 
 as she hurried upstairs. When finally they followed her 
 and knocked, she called out excitedly, " Just a min- 
 ute! " 
 
 They entered and found her sitting on the couch, 
 resting her head against a black satin pillow. She 
 looked very slender and wistful in her negligee of green 
 chiffon. 
 
 " It's very pretty, Rita," her father said. " A little Irish 
 perhaps. I see that the ' Child's Wonder Book ' is missing, 
 but" 
 
 " Shut up, Web," Lilias said suddenly, and they both 
 turned to look at her. Her eyes were wet as she sat down on 
 the couch and pulled Rita into her arms. " You darling! " 
 she said. " You sweet dear little thing." 
 
 " It's very nice, Rita," her father repeated, looking at 
 his wife questioningly. 
 
 " Sit down, Web," Lilias said, making room for him 
 beside her. " Web, our daughter is growing up." 
 
 Webster Moreland nodded. 
 
 " She's really growing up," Lilias repeated solemnly. 
 " Oh, Rita I wonder have I been a good mother to you, 
 Rita? " 
 
 Her husband looked at her apprehensively, and hoped that 
 she was not going to cry. He hated sentiment unless he 
 was feeling it himself. 
 
 " Of course you have, Mother darling," said Rita, kissing 
 her. " Oh, I'm so happy." 
 
 " I'm happy, too," Lilias said, and now her eyes were
 
 PROLOGUE 163 
 
 bright and she was smiling. "Will you join us, 
 Web? " 
 
 " Join you? " 
 
 " Mother means are you happy, too? " Rita asked, smil- 
 ing at him. 
 
 " Of course. Your room's very nice, Rita. I've got to 
 go downstairs and work now." 
 
 Rita and Lilias watched him, as he went out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Aren't men funny? " asked Rita. 
 
 Her mother smiled sadly. " Some men," she said. " You 
 like your room, then, Rita? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Mother." It was nice to have her own room, 
 and to have her mother sitting in it with her. " Stay and 
 talk with me, Moth." 
 
 "All right, dear. You're going out tomorrow night, 
 aren't you? " 
 
 " Yes. Fran and Lloyd and Mr. Sibley and I are hav- 
 ing supper at her house, and then we're going to the open- 
 ing of the theater." 
 
 " Sibley? " Her mother was silent for a minute. " Ed 
 Sibley? " 
 
 " Yes, I'd forgotten he said he knew you." 
 
 " Yes. He knew me." Lilias hesitated, and played with 
 one of the tassels on her daughter's negligee. " Where did 
 you meet him? " 
 
 " At Fran's." 
 
 " Do you like him? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " No," Lilias repeated musingly. She looked at Rita
 
 164 PROLOGUE 
 
 closely for a minute. " I wish you'd bring Fran Woodward 
 over for luncheon some day soon," she said. " I'd like to 
 meet her." 
 
 "I'd love to," Rita said. "I'm glad, Mother you've 
 never been much interested in my friends. Shall I ask Lloyd 
 and Mr. Sibley? " 
 
 '"My God, no!" Lilias laughed uncertainly. "Yes, 
 ask Lloyd," she said. " You and he can talk I want to 
 talk with Miss Woodward." 
 
 " All right, dear." 
 
 Still Lilias was thoughtful. " You can bring people here 
 whenever you want, Rita," she said. She looked about the 
 room for a moment, her eyes flitting from one thing to 
 another. " How would you like it if we fixed up the old 
 nursery into a living-room for you? " she asked. " You 
 could have an afternoon or evening, if you prefer at 
 home here every week, and have your friends come 
 in." 
 
 " Mother! Oh, Mother, what makes you so good to 
 me?" 
 
 Lilias laughed. " Perhaps it's because you're so pretty, 
 Rita, and because " 
 
 " Because what, Mother? " 
 
 " Oh because you're my daughter," she finished, and 
 laughed. " I'm going to run away, too, Rita, and leave you 
 to your glory. Good-night, dearest." 
 
 " Good-night, Mother." 
 
 Rita sat looking after her mother for a moment. She 
 felt that her mother had gone into her room to cry, and 
 she did not understand. For a moment she puzzled; then
 
 PROLOGUE 165 
 
 she ran over to her dressing-table and sat down. Life was 
 so full, and New York so wonderful. And she was growing 
 up. At last she was really growing up! 
 
 " Oh, I love life! " she said, half aloud, and her eyes 
 smiled back at her from the mirror.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 RITA did not enjoy the opening of the little theater. It 
 was crowded and badly ventilated; the peacock blue curtain 
 jerked ridiculously. Fran and Mr. Sibley were amused; 
 Lloyd was at least silent. The plays went fairly smoothly, 
 but the actors were plainly no actors at all, merely Martha 
 or Peg or Jim in more or less improvised costumes. Rita 
 recognized many things from Martha's and Peg's apart- 
 ments in the stage settings. She felt uncomfortable; she 
 did not want Fran and Sibley to think she lacked all sense 
 of humor, but she did not feel like laughing. When the 
 curtain finally jerked together at the end of the last play, 
 she stood up. 
 
 "I'm going to run out and see Martha Webb for a 
 minute," she said. She did not want to go, but she felt 
 that she owed it to herself and to them, to say that she had 
 enjoyed the evening, because she so obviously had not. 
 
 They were all crowded in the untidy room back stage. 
 
 " It was splendid, Martha," Rita said. 
 
 Martha turned and held out both her hands. " Rita! I 
 won't kiss you, because I'm all sticky with make-up. I 
 thought you'd deserted us altogether it's ages since you've 
 been around. Did you like us? " 
 
 " Oh, yes," Rita said. 
 
 166
 
 PROLOGUE 167 
 
 " It wasn't very noticeable where Jim left out a line in 
 Johnny's play, was it? " Peg asked. 
 
 " I didn't notice it at all," Rita said truthfully. 
 
 Lucy O'Day hurried across and kissed her. " My, I'm 
 glad to see you! We thought you didn't like us any more." 
 
 " Rot," Rita said uncomfortably. " I've been awfully 
 busy." 
 
 " Of course," said Martha. " Can you come up to my 
 place tonight, Rita? We're having a little party." 
 
 " I'm sorry, I'm with some people." 
 
 " Then come for tea on Thursday. Be sure, dear." 
 
 " All right." She said good-bye hurriedly, and joined 
 Fran and Sibley and Lloyd. 
 
 " Let's go somewhere and dance," Fran said. 
 
 Rita hesitated. " Fran, my head aches dreadfully," she 
 said finally. " Do you mind if I just hop on a 'bus and go 
 home? I guess it was the air in that room." 
 
 " Poor kid no, of course not." 
 
 " I'll go with you, Rita," said Lloyd. 
 
 " Please don't. I can run along just as well as not." 
 
 " I've got to go home, too," he insisted. They walked 
 across to Fifth Avenue together. " Does your head really 
 ache? " he asked finally. 
 
 She looked up and smiled. " It isn't a headache, exactly," 
 she admitted. " My thoughts are aching." 
 
 Lloyd nodded. "Life's a complex business, Rita," he 
 said sympathetically. 
 
 Rita alternately dreaded and looked forward to Thursday. 
 She put on one of her new dresses, half copied from one of 
 Fran's, and the small hat and veil, the cape. Her new
 
 i68 PROLOGUE 
 
 slippers were highly-heeled and frivolous, and for some 
 reason that she could hardly explain to herself, she took a 
 taxi to the house on West Twenty-second Street. Of course 
 Jim and Peg came up at the moment, and pretended to be 
 prostrated with awe when they saw her step out. 
 
 " I hardly dare speak to you, Rita, you look so wealthy," 
 Peg said. 
 
 " I didn't know you at first," said Jim. 
 
 Rita frowned. Didn't people have any sense at all? 
 They walked up the stairs together, a long climb. 
 
 Rita tried to pretend that she was enjoying the tea as 
 much as she had enjoyed them the winter before, but it was 
 no use. The little room was dark and dingy; the furnish- 
 ings were obviously inexpensive, almost haphazard in 
 arrangement. And Martha and Lucy looked untidy, as 
 though their clothes had never been pressed; Lucy's hands 
 were dirty; it was from her pencils, but Rita did not like 
 it. 
 
 " Of course Karl Marx said it before anyone else," 
 Martha was saying to the strange young man with the red 
 necktie. "He" 
 
 Karl Marx. Oh, yes, he was that stupid creature who 
 wrote long books on uninteresting subjects, clogged with 
 long words. Weren't they ever going to outgrow Karl 
 Marx? Rita had put him out of her mind years before. 
 
 Peg and Helen Marvin were talking about the war. " Oh, 
 I don't believe we'll possibly come in it," Peg was saying. 
 
 We? Did Peg mean the United States? The war? It 
 was all so dull; Rita could not help looking bored. Finally 
 she sought out Jim Norris and chattered with him; it was
 
 PROLOGUE 169 
 
 easier to talk with a man than a woman after all. She 
 decided abruptly, as she leaned forward smiling, listening 
 to Jim with the flattering air of absorption she had picked 
 up from Fran, that she did not like women. She went home 
 early, and felt an immense surge of relief as the door of 
 Martha's apartment closed behind her. No, she had out- 
 grown all that; those interminable conversations and argu- 
 ments that never arrived anywhere. What was the use in 
 worrying about abstract things when there were so many 
 fascinating things in the world that came close to one's 
 life? Rita could not have named any single fascinating 
 thing, but Fran's apartment, the shining glasses, the bright 
 pieces of brocade, the sweet incense, were all the setting 
 for them. 
 
 She walked slowly up the Avenue, and stopped in one of 
 the shops to buy a small powder-box. She decided abruptly 
 to telephone Fran. 
 
 II 
 
 It was tea-time at Fran's. Lloyd was mixing cocktails in 
 the kitchenette, and Rita and Fran were standing by the 
 window. 
 
 " You've got too much red on your lips," Fran said 
 abruptly. " Run in like a good child and rub some of it 
 off." 
 
 Rita tossed her head. " I liked it," she said. 
 
 " Very likely," Fran answered, smiling a little. " But it 
 looks absurd on a kid of your age. A little is all right, 
 but " Rita turned quickly and walked over to the couch 
 where Ed Sibley was sitting.
 
 170 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Fran's been scolding me," she told him, smiling. " She 
 says my lips are too red. What do you think of them? " 
 She lifted her chin and held her mouth up, rather as though 
 she expected to be kissed. 
 
 " I think they're exquisite," he said. " In fact, I've rarely 
 seen lips that were more charming." 
 
 Rita wished regretfully that Sibley was not so old and 
 that she liked him, as she sat down beside him. 
 
 " I'm very stupid now," he said. " I can hear nothing 
 but that ice tinkling in the kitchen." 
 
 " I know," Rita said. " I'm dying of thirst, too. Give 
 me a cigarette, will you Ed? " 
 
 Sibley looked at her through half closed eyes and opened 
 his case, lit the cigarette for her deliberately before he 
 handed it to her. " You look like your mother today," he 
 said abruptly. 
 
 " Thanks." Rita turned slightly towards him, away from 
 the others in the room. 
 
 Lloyd came in with a tray of cocktails, and Rita looked 
 up and smiled as she took hers. Sibley raised his glass. 
 
 " Let me taste your drink," said Rita. " It looks much 
 nicer than mine." She tasted, and saw that Sibley turned 
 the glass to drink from the edge her lips had touched. 
 
 " Want my cherry? " 
 
 "Yes." She opened her mouth, and his fingers touched 
 her lips as she took the cherry. They smiled. 
 
 " What are you doing tonight, Rita? " 
 
 " Nothing." She waited expectantly. 
 
 " I'm going to the dress rehearsal of Moonshine. It 
 ought to be amusing. Want to come? "
 
 PROLOGUE 171 
 
 " I'd love to. I've never been to a rehearsal. What does 
 one wear at such functions? " 
 
 " Oh anything. I've never seen you in evening 
 dress." 
 
 Rita smiled. He had seen her in evening dress, but it 
 had been such a girlish model that it had passed unnoticed. 
 " Evening dress it shall be," she said, and wondered idly 
 what she would wear. 
 
 She said good-bye to Fran rather coolly, and hurried 
 home. Her mother had not come in, and she went directly 
 to her room and took Lilias' black evening dress heavy 
 with sachet, from one of the hangers in the closet, hid it 
 behind the dresses in her own. 
 
 " By the way, Mother," she said at dinner, " I'm going 
 out tonight." 
 
 Her mother looked at her quickly. " To Fran's? " she 
 asked. 
 
 Rita hesitated. She had never lied before. " Yes," she 
 said. 
 
 Her mother said nothing, but after Webster Moreland had 
 left the table, she turned towards her daughter. " Fran 
 telephoned this afternoon that she was coming over here 
 tonight," she said. 
 
 Rita looked at her mother blankly. " Why did you ask 
 me if I was going to Fran's, then? " she asked. 
 
 Lilias swallowed. " Rita, you can't go out with Mr. 
 Sibley," she said quietly. 
 
 " But I'm going." Rita's cheeks were flushed; she looked 
 at her mother defiantly. 
 
 " You're not, Rita." Her mother's face softened sud-
 
 172 PROLOGUE 
 
 denly, " Oh, Rita dear, won't you please stay with me? 
 You see I knew Mr. Sibley once." 
 
 " I know him now," Rita said. 
 
 Lilias managed to remain patient. " Rita, he isn't a 
 a gentleman. He tried to make love to me, and " 
 
 Rita laughed. " But, Mother dear," she said quietly, in 
 a cold voice, " I don't let people make love to me, you 
 see." 
 
 Her mother's face hardened. Rita got up and went 
 quickly to her room, locked the door. She slipped into her 
 mother's evening dress and looked at her reflection, fasci- 
 nated. It was too low over her neck, but her skin was white 
 above the soft black, and her hair gleamed like copper. She 
 found an old jet pin that had been in the costume trunk, 
 and thrust it in her hair. She put her lipstick and powder 
 in her bag, found her gloves. It was only half-past seven; 
 Sibley was not going to call until eight. She pulled on her 
 evening cape and tiptoed down the stairs quietly. No one 
 heard her; she did not know where her mother had gone. 
 She ran quickly along the street to a drug-store, hurried 
 into a telephone-booth. Finally she reached him. 
 
 " Ed? This is Rita. I had to run out after dinner, and 
 I'll meet you at the corner of our street and Fifth Avenue. 
 All right? Fine." 
 
 She walked quietly over to the Avenue, waited. In a few 
 minutes a taxi drew up, and Rita stepped inside. " I 
 brought you these because they're almost the color of your 
 hair," he said. " I didn't know what you were going to 
 wear." Rita's eyes gleamed with delight as she took the 
 bouquet of yellow-gold orchids. She unfastened her cape
 
 PROLOGUE 173 
 
 to pin them at her waist, and Sibley's eyes rested for a 
 moment on her white neck. Rita hated him, but after all, 
 he did not matter. She was having a wonderful time. 
 
 The rehearsal was quite as fascinating as she had supposed 
 it would be. Afterwards they went to a cafe and danced, 
 and Rita had a Welsh rarebit, partly because she loved them, 
 and partly because that, too, was the color of her flowers and 
 her hair. 
 
 " Your mother didn't want you to come? " Sibley asked, 
 as he helped her into the cab. 
 
 "No," Rita said. She did not care; she was happy, 
 radiant. Sibley was close to her; she could feel his breath 
 against her hair. 
 
 " You use the same perfume as Lilias," he said. 
 
 " Sometimes." 
 
 The cab lurched on through the dark streets. Suddenly 
 Sibley leaned over and kissed her. For a moment Rita 
 meant to resist. But after all, she thought, she did not like 
 him, and she had accepted his flowers and his hospitality. 
 She turned her mouth to his. It was not particularly 
 unpleasant, this being kissed, and it made her feel grown- 
 up, and strangely virtuous because she was giving some- 
 thing in return. 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " he said. His fingers were gripping hard on 
 her bare arms. 
 
 Rita disengaged herself quietly. " I've had such a nice 
 time," she said. " Good-night, Ed." 
 
 The outer door was unlocked. Rita marveled at a kind 
 fate, and closed it behind her quietly. 
 
 " Rita! " Her mother was sitting at her desk in the
 
 174 PROLOGUE 
 
 living-room. Rita did not even wind her cloak about her 
 bare neck as she stepped inside. 
 
 " Yes, Mother." 
 
 Lilias looked up at her, startled. For several seconds 
 they stared at each other; then Lilias dropped her eyes, and 
 Rita knew that she had won. Her mother looked up again, 
 helplessly, her eyes traveling slowly from Rita's hair to her 
 feet. " Did you have a nice time? " she asked faintly. 
 
 " Fair." 
 
 " Oh." Still Rita stood quietly in the doorway, looking 
 at her. Her mother wished for a moment that she had 
 been a son. " Good-night, Rita." 
 
 " Good-night, Mother." 
 
 In the morning when Rita came downstairs, her mother's 
 desk was covered with crumpled papers. Rita smoothed 
 them out curiously. " My dear Mr. Sibley ", she read on 
 one; " Dear Ed ", on a second, " Ned dear ", and finally 
 simply " Ed ". There was nothing more. Rita stared at 
 them for a moment, and then ran into the dining-room. Her 
 mother did not come downstairs for breakfast, and her father 
 was engrossed in his newspapers. 
 
 David Ashley arrived at nine o'clock, and Rita followed 
 him into the schoolroom. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Rita stood, hesitating a moment, before she knocked on 
 the door of Jim Morris's office. Finally she did knock, 
 and entered. Jim was sitting at his desk, reading a book. 
 He seemed always to be reading.
 
 PROLOGUE 175 
 
 " Why Rita," he said. " I am glad to see you! Why 
 don't you ever come to see us any more? " 
 
 " I've been so busy," Rita explained. " Jim, IVe come 
 to ask a very great favor of you." 
 
 Jim smiled. " Ask away," he said. 
 
 Rita sat down on the chair beside him, and hesitated. 
 " Jim, I want you to lie for me." 
 
 " IVe lied before," he answered cheerfully. " What is 
 it?" 
 
 " Jim, you know how parents never let you do anything? " 
 
 " Sure I do. You ought to have seen the way Peg's 
 people acted when I wanted to marry her." 
 
 Rita smiled. " Well it's a little like that," she said. 
 " I want you to telephone Mother and tell her you want 
 me to come down to your place tonight." 
 
 Jim looked at Rita closely. " Not doing anything 
 foolish? " he asked. 
 
 " Xo. I just want to go out to dinner and then to 
 dance for a while. I'll I'll promise you to be home before 
 twelve." 
 
 " Sounds reasonable," he admitted, scratching his head. 
 " Why in thunder did you come to me instead of Peg or 
 Martha? " 
 
 Rita smiled. " I knew you'd understand," she said softly. 
 
 He looked at her sharply again. " You won't be sorry, 
 Rita? " 
 
 " Of course not." 
 
 He hesitated. " All right, then it's a bargain." 
 
 Rita drew off her glove and held out her hand to him. 
 " Thank you, Jim," she said quietly.
 
 176 PROLOGUE 
 
 "You look very lovely," Ed Sibley said that night at 
 dinner. 
 
 Rita smiled. " Do I? " she asked. 
 
 He snorted a little as she turned towards the mirror on 
 the wall of the restaurant. " You know you do, you devil," 
 he said. 
 
 Rita smiled. She forgot Sibley, as she looked about the 
 room. 
 
 " You remember that picture I told you about? " he 
 asked. 
 
 She nodded. 
 
 " Fve bought it. Want to come up to my place a~d see 
 it after dinner? " 
 
 Rita looked at him for a moment. "Yes," she said 
 finally. 
 
 She sat close to the wall on her side of the taxi when they 
 started. They were both silent, and she did not look at 
 Sibley. At the door of his apartment house, he paid the 
 driver and they stepped out. Rita started towards the 
 elevator. 
 
 " Better walk up," Sibley said. 
 
 Rita looked at him curiously, and turned obediently to 
 the staircase. Halfway up the second flight, she turned 
 and looked at him. 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " he said. 
 
 Rita stood for a moment, holding on to the banister, 
 looking at him. She swallowed. " Oh, I'm sorry, Ed," she 
 said suddenly. " My head it aches unbearably. I I've 
 got to run home. I'll see you soon." 
 
 " But, Rita"
 
 PROLOGUE 177 
 
 He turned, and she was already on the first flight. In 
 the street she stood for a moment, wondering which way 
 to go. The apartment was far uptown. And perhaps 
 Sibley was following her. She began to run quickly along 
 the street, looking back occasionally. He had not followed. 
 She was panting, and her hair had partly fallen down. 
 
 "What's your hurry, sister? " a man asked. 
 
 Finally she darted into a doorway and waited, her heart 
 thumping. She had no money, and her high-heeled slip- 
 pers hurt her. For a moment she had a mad thought of 
 taking them off and walking in her stockings. She wanted 
 to cry, but she knew there was not time. It must be nearly 
 eleven, and she had promised Jim to be back at the house 
 by twelve. 
 
 Then suddenly she remembered. David Ashley his 
 apartment was on the same street. She walked quickly, 
 looking at the numbers. It was a dingy house, but she 
 climbed the steps and rang the bell. A woman came to the 
 door, an untidy, suspicious looking woman in a soiled 
 kimono. 
 
 " I want to see Mr. Ashley," Rita faltered. 
 
 The woman's expression softened miraculously. " Oh, 
 Mr. Ashley! " she said. "Are you the sister he's told me 
 about? " 
 
 " Yes," said Rita. It didn't matter now whether she 
 lied or not. 
 
 " I think he's still awake," the woman went on. " He 
 works late, Miss Ashley. You ought to stop him." 
 
 Rita nodded weakly. She climbed the dirty stairs behind 
 the woman, and waited outside a door. David Ashley
 
 178 PROLOGUE 
 
 opened it ; he was in sheep-skin slippers that were too large 
 for him, and a heavy bathrobe was over his suit. The 
 room was cold and dimly lighted, dusky from the smoke of 
 his pipe. He looked at Rita with no outward surprise. 
 
 " Come in, child," he said. " Thank you, Mrs. Flaherty." 
 The door closed, and he turned towards Rita, who had begun 
 to cry. 
 
 " I I'm way up here and I haven't any money and 
 Mother doesn't know where I am and I'm cold and I want 
 to go home," Rita said. 
 
 Ashley looked at her for a moment and then took off 
 his bathrobe, wrapped it around her. Her bare neck was 
 like a little girl's; she looked pitifully young and small and 
 frightened. 
 
 " Wait till I put on my shoes," he said simply. In hardly 
 a moment he was ready, and they went out together. At 
 the second block they found a taxi, and he lifted Rita 
 inside, wrapped her in the overcoat he was carrying. 
 
 They were both silent as the cab bumped down the Ave- 
 nue, turned up the side street. Ashley opened the cab 
 door. 
 
 " Good-night," he said. " Thank you for coming to me." 
 
 " Good-night," Rita answered. " And thank you." She 
 hurried up the stairs to her room, and fell asleep almost as 
 soon as she was in bed.
 
 PROLOGUE 179 
 
 IV 
 
 Rita was sleepy in the morning when she went down into 
 the schoolroom. David Ashley was seated at the desk, his 
 head buried in his hands. He too, looked tired. 
 
 " Good-morning, Mr. Ashley," Rita said. 
 
 " Good-morning, Rita." He did not look up, and she 
 sat down quietly and waited. 
 
 " Rita, you're not doing good work any more," he said 
 abruptly. " You've got just this year to prepare for college, 
 and you won't get there unless you apply yourself. You're 
 doing four years' work in two, anyway. Those years at 
 boarding-school didn't teach you anything." 
 
 Rita nodded. 
 
 " Rita if I hadn't known you last year, I wouldn't try 
 to teach you anything this year. But I know that you can 
 learn if you want to. Last year your friends gave you 
 stimulus. They made you want to study. This year your 
 friends are taking you away from your work. Do you 
 know that? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 His head still was bowed on his hands. " Rita, I'm only 
 a tutor who is hired to train you to enter college. I suppose 
 I have no right to talk about other things than lessons. 
 We're friends, too, of course. If I wanted to, I could ask 
 you out to luncheon or tea with me. Outside your house we 
 would not be teacher and scholar. But I'm not going to do 
 that. I'm going to talk to you here where everything is 
 against me." 
 
 " There isn't anything against you here, Mr. Ashley,"
 
 i8o PROLOGUE 
 
 Rita said. " Except me. I'm against you and against 
 myself and against everything." 
 
 He smiled faintly. " Rita, what are you doing? " he 
 asked. " What's the matter with you? What's the matter 
 with Peg Norris and the people you used to play with last 
 year? " 
 
 Rita looked down at her hands. " I thought it was be- 
 cause they were so so young," she said. " So young and 
 enthusiastic. Perhaps it's because I'm so young. Per- 
 haps I'm younger this year than I was last. I don't know. 
 But I'm sick of talk. I want to dance and have pretty 
 clothes and flirt and oh, I don't know." 
 
 " How old are you, Rita? " 
 
 " Seventeen and a half." 
 
 " You don't know anyone your own age here in New 
 York? " 
 
 " No. Oh, I don't want to, Mr. Ashley. I hate people 
 my own age." 
 
 " Do you know any young men boys of about twenty, 
 I mean? " 
 
 Rita shook her head. " I don't like them, Mr. Ashley. 
 I like men to be grown-up and and sure of themselves. 
 I" 
 
 " Boys sometimes are that," he answered. " You don't 
 talk much with your mother, do you? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Or your father? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Who are you going to tell about last night? " He looked 
 at her quickly again.
 
 PROLOGUE 181 
 
 " No one," Rita said. " I could tell Fran but I guess 
 I don't trust her. You can't trust a woman. And I could 
 tell Lloyd, but he'd think I was such a little fool. And 
 you see, Mr. Ashley last night I lied to Mother. I got a 
 friend of mine to telephone her that I was going to be 
 with them. And then I went out to dinner with Ed Sibley. 
 He's really a horrid person; old, and not nice. But I 
 don't know why I wanted to go. He makes me feel so 
 grown-up and so so pretty. After dinner we were going 
 up to his apartment to see a picture he had bought. He said 
 not to go in the elevator to walk. And then halfway up 
 the stairs oh, I didn't want to go! I had known all along 
 that I shouldn't, that I'm not so terribly young, Mr. Ash- 
 ley. But I'd wanted to go before. Just to see. And then 
 his face so I ran over to you." 
 
 11 I'm glad you did that, Rita," Ashley said, not looking at 
 her. " I hope you're not going to see this man again." 
 
 " No. I never want to see him again." 
 
 They were silent for a few minutes. " Rita, I wish you'd 
 come to me whenever you need someone," he said finally. 
 " I I suppose some people could help you now. I can't. 
 I don't know what to say. You'll just have to fight things 
 out for yourself. But I want you to feel that whatever 
 you do, you can come to me." 
 
 " I do, Mr. Ashley. I I will." 
 
 " You remember last year we talked about New York? 
 And I said you'd find your city in time? You will, Rita 
 and you must. I suppose you've got to see it all before 
 you can choose." 
 
 " I'm afraid that's it," Rita said.
 
 i82 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I wish my mother was alive," he said softly. " You'd 
 like her. And she'd like you." 
 
 " I'm sure I would," Rita answered. " You're awfully 
 nice' to me, Mr. Ashley." 
 
 "Nonsense," he looked quickly over the papers on 
 his desk. "Let's start with mathematics and get it 
 over." 
 
 "All right." 
 
 Rita opened her book, and tried to listen to her tutor, 
 but her thoughts seemed to have scattered too far. His 
 thoughts also must have been scattered, for he did not seem 
 to care that when one o'clock came they had accomplished 
 nothing. 
 
 V 
 
 April I7th, 1916. 
 
 Another spring has come my second in New York. Last 
 spring I hated to leave New York; this spring I hate to 
 think of going away, too, and yet I understand what Mother 
 means by the peace and quiet of Larchborough. 
 
 I'm terribly unhappy and discontented and dissatisfied 
 with myself. 
 
 Last year New York seemed such a wonderful place. I 
 didn't belong, of course, with the people who interested me, 
 but I didn't care. I was learning to belong. And then 
 last fall when I was older and ready to go to Martha's and 
 talk with the rest of them I didn't want to go. I had 
 changed somehow. 
 
 And I started playing with Fran Woodward. I've written 
 a lot in this diary about parties at Fran's, the dances and
 
 PROLOGUE 183 
 
 the teas. But now I'm thinking of them in another way. I 
 know now that I don't belong there either. At least I'm 
 ahead of where I was last year, because I know now that I 
 don't want to belong. 
 
 I don't know what I want. And it seems as though that 
 were the most tragic thing in the world. I'm nearly eighteen 
 years old, and I'm supposed to enter college next fall. J 
 don't even know that I want to do that. 
 
 The crowd at Martha's isn't enough. I do love pretty 
 clothes. And I like men. At Martha's there aren't men 
 and women there are just people. And at Fran's there are 
 not people only men and women. It seems as though there 
 must be some solution. If only I could fall in love; I think 
 that is what David Ashley meant when he asked me if I 
 didn't know any young boys. Perhaps falling in love 
 does solve things; I suppose you haven't time to think 
 then. 
 
 But I don't know whom to fall in love with. Perhaps if 
 someone should fall in love with me, I could fall in love 
 back. Fran's always half in love with someone and men 
 are always in love with her. I guess that's what I want I 
 don't know. 
 
 There'll be Bobby this summer. But Bobby ! I can't 
 express the contempt I feel for Bobby as someone to fall in 
 love with. No, I want a man a really grown-up man. 
 But not like Ed Sibley. There must be something in be- 
 tween. 
 
 I wonder when I'll ever get my life settled and things 
 straight. I'm so unhappy everything seems so useless. I 
 do wish we'd go to Larchborough, so that I can row on the
 
 i84 PROLOGUE 
 
 lake and lie on the grass under the trees, and think and 
 think and think. 
 
 Thinking hasn't helped so far, but perhaps it will some- 
 time. Oh, I don't like life I don't like anything. I wish 
 I knew what I wanted!
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 IT was a hot morning in July. The sun beat down on 
 the oiled road until its dark brown turned to gold; the sky 
 was heavy with heat. To Rita, lying on her back in the 
 grass, it seemed swaying nearer and nearer, as though soon 
 it would fall altogether and envelop the earth. 
 
 Rita was bored bored with everything. She yawned at 
 the thought of Bobby and his passion for moving-pictures or 
 dances at the pavillion ; tennis, rowing, even swimming called 
 for more exertion than she had felt in days. She was too hot, 
 almost, to think. So she lay quietly on her back, watching 
 the heavy clouds, and shading her eyes with her arm. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She rolled over lazily, and waved at a figure that came 
 running towards her. The sun was in her eyes, and she 
 could not make out who it was. 
 
 " Rita, where are you? " 
 
 " Here," she sat up and waited. The figure came nearer 
 and sat down on the grass beside her. " Why, Peg Norris ! " 
 
 " We just arrived a few hours ago," Peg said. " How 
 are you? " 
 
 " Oh bored to death. What in the world are you doing 
 in this dump? " 
 
 185
 
 186 PROLOGUE 
 
 " We came down for our vacation Larchborough sounded 
 so much cooler than any other place we could think of. 
 And I thought I'd like to see you." 
 
 " You're a dear." Rita was almost jealous of Peg, as 
 she looked at her. She was so radiant, so completely happy 
 and content. " You're fatter, Peg." 
 
 " Am I? I'm feeling splendidly. We oh, Rita, it's 
 nice to see you. I was having tea with David Ashley one 
 afternoon last week and we talked about you. He's very 
 fond of you, Rita." 
 
 " I'm very fond of him," Rita said, pulling up a long 
 piece of grass and chewing the sweet end. She wondered 
 what they had said about her, why Peg and Jim had chosen 
 Larchborough for their vacation instead of Provincetown 
 where they usually went. " He's been awfully nice to me. 
 Is Jim here now? " 
 
 " Yes over at the hotel. Are you coming swimming with 
 us in about half an hour? " 
 
 Rita looked up languidly. " I'm so lazy," she said. " Yes, 
 I'll come." 
 
 Peg smiled at her brightly. " There are so many things 
 I want to tell you, Rita," she said. " I've never known you 
 half as well as I wanted to." 
 
 " Nor I you. New York's such a big place, and " Rita 
 hurled away the handful of grass she had been plucking 
 nervously. "I'm terribly cross these days, Peg. I don't 
 know what's the matter with me." 
 
 " I think I do," Peg said. " Because I was like that before 
 I met Jim I was about your age then. Nothing seemed 
 worth while I hated everyone. I hated women particularly,
 
 PROLOGUE 187 
 
 I remember it's only lately that I've learned how nice they 
 can be." 
 
 " I don't like them much," Rita admitted. " But I don't 
 like men either. I oh, let's go swimming now. Did you 
 bring your suits over with you? " 
 
 " I'm going back to the hotel to change Jim's unpacking 
 there. I just ran over to see you for a moment." 
 
 Rita walked up the path to the house slowly. It was 
 nice to have the Norrises in Larchborough, but she could 
 find enthusiasm for nothing. The years stretching ahead 
 of her, seemed endless deserts of boredom. She put on her 
 bathing suit and walked down to the lake. No one was 
 swimming; a few boats drifted listlessly about. She waited, 
 sitting on the edge of the dock and splashing her feet lazily 
 in the water, until Peg and Jim swam over to her. 
 
 They came to the Moreland house for dinner that night; 
 Rita said little; she was hardly interested in the news of 
 New York or the long talk that Jim and her father plunged 
 into immediately. She did not care whether the United 
 States went into the war or not, and she said so. 
 
 "Rita! " Peg reproved. 
 
 " Rita doesn't care about anything these days," Lilias 
 said. " I don't know what's got into her. Of course it 
 would be terrible. And yet " 
 
 " Oh, it would be terrible! " said Peg. " I don't want 
 it I And yet sometimes It's all so confusing and 
 awful." 
 
 " I suppose Donald Wells would go," said Lilias. 
 
 Donald. Rita had almost forgotten Donald and Aunt 
 Helen and the twins. It seemed so long since she had known
 
 1 88 PROLOGUE 
 
 them. " I wonder what Donald is doing? " she said, half 
 to herself. 
 
 " I had a letter from Dick the other day," said her father. 
 " Dick's business has pretty well smashed, and the kid can't 
 keep on with college. They're sending him to New York 
 in the fall and want me to look after him." 
 
 " Oh, I'm sorry about Uncle Dick's business, I mean. 
 It will be nice to see Donald again." 
 
 " What's he like Donald? " Peg asked Rita suddenly. 
 " Tell me about him." 
 
 Rita told her listlessly about the Wells family ; she found 
 that she was interested in spite of herself as she began to 
 remember that half-forgotten year. 
 
 " Why don't you have the boy stay at your house, Lilias? " 
 Peg asked. " I should think he'd be good fun for Rita." 
 
 " It would," Lilias said. " Although I don't think any- 
 thing could possibly make Rita smile." 
 
 After dinner Peg drew Rita out to the piazza and they 
 sat down on the railing, looking out at the lake. 
 
 "What are you going to do next winter, Rita? " 
 
 Rita shrugged her shoulders. " College I don't know." 
 
 " Do you want to go? " 
 
 " No. But I don't especially want not to go. All I 
 want is oh, life is such a bore." 
 
 Peg's lips drew together tightly. " It is not a bore," she 
 said. " Not in the least. And people who think it is ought 
 to be ashamed of themselves. You know, Rita, if I were 
 you, I wouldn't go to college. It won't do you any good 
 I hate to carry tales out of school, but David Ashley says 
 he doesn't think you could pass your entrance exams any-
 
 PROLOGUE 189 
 
 way. There's no use in wasting your time and your parents' 
 money in going to college and not studying. I think you 
 ought to go to work." 
 
 " Work? " Rita repeated. " What could I do? " 
 
 " What could you do if you had to support yourself? " 
 Peg asked impatiently. " Oh, Rita, I wish you wouldn't 
 be such a little fool. I wish you'd take some interest in 
 something." 
 
 " So do I," Rita answered, and smiled complacently. 
 
 " But you're not trying. You're just having a lovely time 
 being unhappy. You're wasting your energy feeling sorry 
 for yourself, Rita Moreland! " Peg turned and went into 
 the house, and Rita stared after her angrily. 
 
 Feeling sorry for herself! Peg's words had hit her as 
 though they had been a blow. Feeling sorry for herself! 
 
 It was just what she had been doing. 
 
 She jerked her body up and sat erect for the first time 
 in weeks. She was very angry, but she was angry at her- 
 self and not at Peg. She wanted to pound on the piazza 
 railing. She jumped up and went into the living-room. 
 
 " My Lord, it's hot in here," she said. The conversation 
 stopped abruptly as she came in, and she walked about the 
 room quickly, banging open the few windows that had been 
 closed. " Let's all go swimming after it's darker." 
 
 Peg turned and smiled slightly at her husband. " Sure," 
 she agreed. 
 
 " I think it would be fun, too," Lilias said. 
 
 When Rita finally got into bed, she was cooled by her 
 swimming and the cold shower, and she was not at all sleepy. 
 She lay awake, thinking of what Peg had said. Sorry for
 
 190 PROLOGUE 
 
 herself. She was a little fool. Sorry for herself! The 
 words echoed and re-echoed through her head. When she 
 awoke in the morning, she jumped out of bed and put on 
 her bathing suit, swam about in the lake before breakfast. 
 
 Sorry for herself! 
 
 She and Peg were together almost every day during the 
 month. 
 
 " I'm going to have a baby, Rita," Peg said one morn- 
 ing, as they sat underneath the trees at the edge of the 
 lake. 
 
 " Oh, Peg! " 
 
 " It's nice, isn't it? Perhaps that's why I'm so awfully 
 interested in you I hope that doesn't make me sound 
 awfully ancient and far off. I'm more interested in Jim 
 in your mother in everyone. It makes you think more 
 about life." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I like your mother, Rita." Peg looked at her steadily, 
 but Rita's face was expressionless. " You don't, I know. I 
 think perhaps you will sometime. I hate to pull all this 
 old stuff about after you're married but that does make 
 you understand things, you know." 
 
 " I suppose so." Rita was not sullen as she had been at 
 first when Peg had drawn her out, but her answers were 
 short. Her mind, at least, was working now. 
 
 " Rita have you ever talked with her much? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Peg looked out over the lake, and her cheeks were pink. 
 " I wonder Rita, what do you know about life about men 
 and women? I mean of course you've had all sorts of
 
 PROLOGUE 191 
 
 experiences with men and women. And you've read a great 
 deal, and heard pretty raw conversations at Martha's and 
 probably worse at Fran Woodward's. But are you sure 
 your ideas are all straight and decent? " 
 
 Rita flushed, too. If David Ashley had put the same 
 question to her, she could have answered as straightfor- 
 wardly. But with a woman it was somehow different. Her 
 own sex embarrassed her always. She tried to shake off 
 the embarrassment. She started to speak, and Peg inter- 
 rupted her. 
 
 " Rita, would you like me to talk to you for a while just 
 as if you were a very small girl? Would you like me to 
 tell you about your mother, too? You see, Rita, I'm 
 very fond of Lilias. She's done things that are foolish, but 
 it hasn't all been her fault. You don't understand it is 
 hard to understand. But I want you to have more sympathy 
 for her. She loves you so much and you've been difficult 
 for her. You've been a constant reminder of when your 
 father and she loved each other." 
 
 Rita looked up at Peg gratefully. " I want to just listen, 
 Peggy," she said. " I I can't ask things somehow." 
 
 And she listened while Peg talked to her. It was late 
 when they finished, and Peg bore her back to the hotel for 
 luncheon. 
 
 " By the way, Jimmy," she said, smiling at her husband, 
 " Rita's decided she wants to go to work next fall. You 
 said you had a place open in your office I think Rita could 
 do good stuff for you. All advertising needs is imagination 
 and an experienced guiding hand, anyway. Want to try 
 her? "
 
 i 9 2 PROLOGUE 
 
 Jim who had already pronounced his willingness to take 
 Rita in his office smiled at Rita. " Sure I'd like to. Ill 
 give you twenty dollars a week, Rita. And you've got to 
 be there sharp at nine." 
 
 Rita's eyes suddenly brimmed with tears. "You're so 
 good to me," she said. " I don't know why you're so good 
 to me." 
 
 "Idiot! " Peg's eyes were bright. "We welcome you 
 to the ranks of the working girl, Rita." 
 
 Rita smiled. " Peg, I never sewed anything in my life," 
 she said, " but I'm going to make your baby a dress that 
 will be so beautiful that everyone will think the most 
 talented nun in the oldest convent in the oldest country 
 of the world made it." 
 
 II 
 
 The first two months in New York were a period of 
 uncertainty for Rita. She vacillated between the fascination 
 of conversation and thought at Martha's and Peg's and the 
 gaiety and extravagance of Fran Woodward. And although 
 she did not find a third group of people to increase her 
 perplexity, her work with Jim offered a third and different 
 interest. 
 
 At first, she gave all her time and energy to the office; 
 she worked after five at night, and even brought pages of 
 copy home with her to puzzle over and rewrite. Although 
 that first enthusiasm wore away, and she confined her work 
 to the hours between nine and five, she was always inter- 
 ested in it. She delighted in Jim's praise she soon dis-
 
 PROLOGUE 193 
 
 covered that it was never given lightly and earned it 
 often. 
 
 To her parents, she seemed subdued, chastened. Even 
 David Ashley, who asked her to lunch one day, was pleased 
 with the change in her. Peg, alone, watched her at times 
 with an uncertain expression in her brown eyes; she knew 
 that Rita was not so much at peace with herself and the 
 world as she seemed no girl ef eighteen is. And she was 
 a little frightened by Rita's control, and sudden adaptability. 
 When Donald Wells arrived at the Moreland house, Peg was 
 sitting, sewing with Lilias. She held out her hand to him, 
 and then smiled in relief. Donald, indeed, seemed what Rita 
 needed. 
 
 Rita was late in arriving home from the office, and she 
 hurried directly to her room without glancing into the 
 living-room. She was tired, and the long week was at an 
 end. She dallied through her bath, and slipped into a 
 cool negligee, thrust her feet into satin mules. When she 
 came downstairs she hesitated at the living-room door. She 
 had forgotten about Donald, and she was startled at the 
 sight of a strange young man in the house. 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " Her mother looked up, and smiled. 
 " Here's Donald." 
 
 " Donald? " Rita held out her hand a little shyly. 
 Strange that she should be shy before this boy she had 
 known for so long. He smiled at her as he came forward, 
 a tall, slender man, with the same fair hair and clear eyes 
 that Rita had liked in him years before. " I'm glad to see 
 you. I I'd forgotten that you were coming today. I'm 
 sorry I'm not dressed."
 
 194 PROLOGUE 
 
 " It's all right.'' He was shy, too, but Rita, suddenly 
 regaining control of herself, saw that he found her very 
 charming. And after all, the white negligee was becom- 
 ing. . . 
 
 Lilias, with her usual somewhat obvious tact, left them 
 together, and Rita pulled out a chair for Donald, and sat 
 down in the low arm-chair beside the window. 
 
 " Have I changed? " she asked. 
 
 "No not much. Just grown older. And " 
 
 Rita smiled. " Oh, and prettier, Donald. One must say 
 that." 
 
 " But you know that, don't you? " 
 
 Perhaps he wasn't quite so young as she had thought. 
 He was smiling at her, and now his eyes were not so easy 
 to read as they had been in Boston. " Don't know that 
 you noticed it," she said. 
 
 "I did." 
 
 They looked at each other silently; each comparing in 
 their minds the combination of memory, pictures, letters, 
 and perhaps ideals. They were glad that dinner was ready, 
 and that they could continue their observations. 
 
 Rita suddenly laughed, as the maid brought in coffee. 
 She looked at Donald, and he laughed, too. Lilias and 
 Webster Moreland smiled at each other across the table. 
 
 " It's awfully nice this seeing you again," Rita said. 
 " I'm quite excited about it, Donald. It's like meeting an 
 entirely different person, and yet " 
 
 " And yet we've got all our old memories," Donald said. 
 
 " My Lord, you kids sound sentimental," Lilias said, 
 laughing.
 
 PROLOGUE 195 
 
 " Sentimental? " Rita looked at her mother humorously. 
 4t I don't believe we have any sentimental memories. We 
 liked each other when we were kids, but when I was young 
 and flapperish and in a perfect age for beaux, Donald 
 didn't like me a bit." 
 
 " You didn't like me," Donald corrected her. 
 
 " Well, did you like me? " Rita leaned forwaid and 
 lighted a cigarette at the candle. 
 
 " What do you think? " 
 
 They looked at each other again, amused and delighted. 
 Whatever anticipations Donald had had, he seemed to find 
 Rita attractive, and Rita herself, was surprised and excited 
 to find Donald a man, a person not awkward or self- 
 conscious. 
 
 " How did you get so grown-up, Donald? " she asked him 
 lightly. 
 
 " I'm older than you are." 
 
 " Yes, but you are a boy. Boys are always slower about 
 things than girls." 
 
 Donald looked at her a moment, smiling. " I'll race you," 
 he said. 
 
 " One always gives girls a head start, don't they? " 
 Rita asked, ungrammatically, but keeping the conversation 
 impersonal. 
 
 " You don't get one," said Donald, and she laughed again. 
 It was nice to feel like laughing. She had had no idea 
 that it would be such fun to have Donald in the same house. 
 
 She was sorry after dinner when Lloyd and Fran came in. 
 She and Lloyd sat down on the couch and chattered together, 
 and she was a little annoyed that Donald found Fran so
 
 196 PROLOGUE 
 
 attractive, that Fran's laugh rippled out as often as her own 
 had at dinner. She wanted to listen to them, but she shook 
 off the idea impatiently and turned to Lloyd. 
 
 " You must come up to my house for tea tomorrow after- 
 noon and bring Mr. Wells," Fran said. 
 
 " I've promised to go to Martha's," answered Rita. 
 
 " What are two teas in an afternoon? " demanded Lloyd, 
 and Rita felt impatient with him. " You'll have to take 
 Wells to both of 'em, Rita, and show him that you're a true 
 New Yorker." 
 
 " Both, by all means," Donald said. " I haven't met 
 Miss Webb, you know, Rita, and I have met Miss Wood- 
 ward." 
 
 Rita wondered irritably whether Donald was a flirt. 
 
 " I want to see you," Lloyd said to her. " So come to 
 Fran's, too. You've been so busy lately, and so stingy with 
 your evenings that I never see you." 
 
 " Only about four times a week," Rita said. 
 
 " Only four," Lloyd agreed. " And there are seven days 
 and at least five meals a day in New York and all sorts of 
 hours in between." 
 
 Rita laughed. " Don't tell me that I'm your inspiration, 
 Lloyd," she mocked. 
 
 " All right I won't tell you," he agreed. " But my 
 novel's going nicely, and they don't show any signs of firing 
 me at the office." 
 
 " Fine. I'm awfully glad. Like Donald? " 
 
 Lloyd glanced at him casually. " Looks all right to me. 
 Do you like him, Rita? " 
 
 " Oh immensely," she said, watching Lloyd. It was
 
 PROLOGUE 197 
 
 curious that now that the gods had given her Donald to 
 play with, Lloyd seemed to be hurling himself in her arms. 
 When she went to her room that night, she sat down at 
 her desk and picked up her diary. For a few moments she 
 hesitated over it, then she pushed it aside. After all, a 
 diary is to complain in, a place where things are put upon 
 paper to untangle and simplify them. She was too happy, 
 too content, to need that. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Rita and Donald were talking in the converted nursery. 
 A wood fire was crackling in the fire-place, and the windows 
 were banked with snow. They had drawn the couch close 
 to the fire; the tea-table with the cups and samovar was 
 at Rita's right, one of the many small taborets Rita had 
 purchased was at Donald's left. 
 
 " Gee, I like this room, Rita! " 
 
 " I like it too." It seemed smaller than when it had been 
 the nursery; the maple piano that her father had given her 
 took up one end; in the gray light the glass lamps and the 
 Roman sash that trailed across it shone. The long red 
 table with the reading lamp was piled with magazines and 
 newspapers; in fact the room was so comfortable that Rita 
 had had difficulty in preventing her mother and father from 
 forsaking their own living-room altogether. 
 
 She leaned against the rounded arm of the couch, and 
 .watched Donald as he looked about appreciatively. She 
 enjoyed the long talks they had together in the room, 
 enjoyed having him there with her.
 
 198 PROLOGUE 
 
 " You like New York, don't you, Don? " 
 
 " Lord, yes. I've been spared all that searching you 
 say you went through you did that for me, Rita." 
 
 " Did I? I'm glad." 
 
 " You've done a lot for me, you know." He leaned for- 
 ward and poked the fire with the brass tongs. " I like 
 your friend Ashley." 
 
 " I'm glad. It's a long time since I've seen much of 
 him I guess he works pretty hard." 
 
 " He's a damned interesting chap he asked me out to 
 lunch with him, and I'm going to like going. He's a college 
 education himself." 
 
 Rita's eyes softened. "You wanted to keep on with 
 college, didn't you, Don? " 
 
 " Yes but it doesn't matter. I like newspaper work, and 
 I'll pick up the things I want eventually." 
 
 Rita sighed. " Life is so funny," she explained. " Here 
 you are, wanting college, and unable to have it. And here 
 I am, with college before me if I had wanted it and I 
 don't." 
 
 " Oh, well" 
 
 They were both silent. 
 
 " I don't care much for your little friend Fran Woodward," 
 Donald said suddenly. 
 
 " Why not? " Rita asked. 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. She's I don't think she's so awfully 
 good for you, Rita." 
 
 " Oh? " Rita's voice had grown icy, but Donald did 
 not seem to notice. 
 
 " Perhaps a man sort of gets things. She seems a little
 
 PROLOGUE 199 
 
 cheap, Rita. You're better than all that that Sibley man, 
 and" 
 
 " I think I can choose my own friends, Donald." 
 
 "No doubt. But you're not awfully old, Rita. After 
 all, you're only eighteen, and " 
 
 " Oh, my God! " Rita hurled her cigarette into the fire- 
 place impatiently. " Donald, you sound just like an old 
 woman, saying ' My dear, after you're married you'll under- 
 stand these things '! " 
 
 He flushed slightly, but went on quietly. " I know it's 
 none of my business wish it was." 
 
 " My friends never could be your business," Rita said 
 coldly. 
 
 " Very likely not. But oh, all that drinking and smok- 
 ing and flirting and talking about sex " He stopped, help- 
 lessly. 
 
 " You must remember that you're only three months 
 away from Boston," Rita said. 
 
 " Oh, well, never mind, then. It's nothing to quarrel 
 about. It's just that I like you, Rita, and " 
 
 " Take a brotherly interest in me." 
 
 He grinned. " What would you do if I didn't contradict 
 that, Rita? " She was silent, and he laughed shortly. " Oh, 
 well you win. I don't and you know it." 
 
 " What sort of interest do you take in me, Donald? " 
 Rita asked. 
 
 He turned and looked at her. She was laughing. " Oh, 
 I haven't decided," he said lightly. 
 
 "Why not?" 
 
 " Rita dear," he said quietly, " that doesn't work with
 
 200 PROLOGUE 
 
 me. When I want to tell you that I love you, I will. And 
 I won't until then." 
 
 Rita got up angrily and walked over to the window. Her 
 cheeks were flushed and she felt like a small girl who has 
 been naughty. She was always underestimating Donald; 
 it was hard to realize that although he was young and even 
 crude at times, he was a man. Sometimes he seemed older 
 than she Rita was annoyed at that. No man of twenty- 
 one had any right to seem older than she. 
 
 He had come over to her quietly. " I'm sorry, Rita," 
 he said. " I didn't mean to be rude." 
 
 " You were, though." She did turn to look at him; she 
 was angry with herself, and she wanted him to apolo- 
 gize. 
 
 " I know I was,' .ie said. " And I'm sorry. Come along 
 back and fix me another cup of tea and let's talk. I 
 haven't told you about the funny story I was sent on yes- 
 terday." 
 
 Still Rita did not turn; she knew that her cheeks were 
 flushed, and she was ashamed. 
 
 " Coming, Rita? " 
 
 " Oh, fix your own tea! " she said impatiently. " You 
 know how! " 
 
 He was very still for a moment; she wanted to turn and 
 look at him, but she knew he was watching her. She stared 
 steadily out at the snow. Suddenly she was jerked about, 
 and she felt his hand under her chin. She looked at him 
 angrily; he was laughing. She started to speak, and his 
 mouth pressed down on hers firmly. He laughed as he 
 released her, and held the hands that had struck out at
 
 PROLOGUE 201 
 
 him. Then he turned quietly and walked out of the room. 
 Rita stood quite still, listening to his footsteps on the 
 stairs. He had gone into his room, she decided. She stood, 
 round-eyed, for several minutes, listening. 
 
 IV 
 
 New Year's Eve of Nineteen-seventeen, and Rita herself 
 was giving a party. She stood at the door of her living- 
 room on the top floor of the Moreland house, looking at 
 the people. It was the first time that the two crowds had 
 ever been so closely mixed; a tea naturally divides itself 
 into groups. Martha Webb, in an old-fashioned costume, 
 was talking to Lloyd Evans; Fran and John Cook seemed 
 to be getting along remarkably well; Donald was talking 
 with Helen Marvin. Rita's eyes rested on him for a 
 moment; she liked him in his funny Pierrot costume, with 
 his cap slipping from the side of his blond head. The long 
 table was cleared of magazines, and spread with sandwiches 
 and hors-d'ceuvre that her mother had planned; her father 
 sat at the piano, playing with one finger a tune to Lucy 
 O'Day, who was leaning over, listening. 
 
 David Ashley, in an immense and baggy costume that he 
 might have made himself, came up to her. " Like your 
 party, Rita? " 
 
 " Yes, do you? " 
 
 " Immensely. You make me feel twenty years younger, 
 Rita you were a dear to invite an old codger like me." 
 
 " Silly." She leaned towards him to kiss him, and was 
 surprised at the blush that crept up to his gray hair.
 
 202 PROLOGUE 
 
 " That Donald Wells is a nice boy, Rita." 
 
 Rita laughed. " Matchmaker! " she accused him. " Yes, 
 Don's a dear. We like each other, and we fight all the 
 time like cats and dogs." 
 
 "I'm glad to hear that." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 He smiled. " Because then I know that Donald doesn't 
 let you have your own way which is quite apt to be wrong, 
 my dear." 
 
 Rita pouted. " What time is it? " she asked. 
 
 From the folds of his costume David Ashley's hand found 
 the pocket of his suit underneath and he pulled out his 
 watch. " Quarter-past eleven." 
 
 " Well have to go to the hall pretty soon. Make them 
 keep still, David." 
 
 " All right if I can." He turned from her, smiling, 
 and climbed on one of the taborets. " Silence! Silence! 
 SILENCE! Rita wants to speak! " 
 
 Rita laughed, as the conversation and laughter reluctantly 
 died away. " It's quarter-past eleven," she said, mounting 
 the table that Ashley surrendered to her. " The taxis will 
 be here at about half-past. If you want anything more 
 to eat before you go, eat now." 
 
 There was a loud cheer, and much scrambling about the 
 table. Lloyd came up to her, but Rita pushed him away 
 " I'm being a hostess," she said. " Run over and talk to 
 Lucy Father seems to have deserted her." 
 
 He went reluctantly, and Rita walked about the room, 
 smiling with pleasure and contentment. Finally, satisfied, 
 she hurried down the stairs to her room, to fix her tangled
 
 PROLOGUE 203 
 
 hair before they left the house. She heard voices in Don- 
 ald's room, and hesitated unconsciously. 
 
 " I'm glad you feel that way about her," David Ash- 
 ley's voice said. " She's a nice girl, Donald. And she needs 
 you, you know." 
 
 " Needs me? " It was Donald's voice. 
 
 Rita stood perfectly still. 
 
 " I've been afraid for her. She's headstrong and she's 
 got so much both of her mother and her father in her, 
 Donald. And she's playing with some pretty dangerous 
 people she's had some pretty rough experiences. And 
 now there's Evans." 
 
 Rita's breath seemed to stop in her throat; she wanted to 
 go on, but she could not. It was horrid to eavesdrop. But 
 
 " Do you think she cares for him? " Donald asked. 
 
 " No. I don't think he really cares for her but he 
 thinks he does, and that's as bad. Oh, he's all right, of 
 course but if Rita wasn't as level-headed as she is " 
 
 Rita suddenly gained control of her muscles. She tip- 
 toed hurriedly into her room, and stood, panting, after she 
 had closed the door. So David Ashley was giving Donald 
 good advice about her! She felt suddenly that she hated 
 them both. If he told Donald about Sibley but he 
 wouldn't do that. Her cheeks were flaming as she sat down 
 before her mirror and combed her hair. It was rather a 
 consolation to see that she looked pretty; she half forgot 
 them in looking at her reflection. The impressionistic cos- 
 tume that Lucy O'Day had designed and that her mother 
 and the dress-maker had carried out, was charming. The 
 material was of green and white squares, each square about
 
 204 PROLOGUE 
 
 three inches across. The bodice was straight across her breast, 
 and the full skirt fell a few inches below her knees. Long 
 white satin trousers were gathered tightly about her ankles 
 with black ribbons; her slippers were of black satin with 
 green heels. Her shoulders were bare, except for the straps 
 of narrow black ribbon, and her hands were covered with 
 short black silk gloves. 
 
 She stared at herself in the mirror for a minute; then 
 she got up abruptly and hurried up the stairs. 
 
 " Most time to leave, isn't it? " Donald asked her, smiling. 
 
 " Is it? " Rita looked up at him quietly, and he did not 
 understand the expression in her green eyes, although he 
 noticed it. " Where's Lloyd? " . 
 
 " Over there with Fran." He watched her while she ran 
 across the room and sat down beside him. For a moment 
 he wondered if she knew that he and Ashley had been dis- 
 cussing her; she had been downstairs. But he put the 
 thought out of his mind. 
 
 The New Year's dance was in the ball-room of a hotel, 
 and Rita caught her breath as they came in. Pastel-shaded 
 balloons had been fastened in bunches near the chiffon 
 ceiling; tropical vines bearing exotic brilliant fruit and 
 wide-petaled flowers dripped from the chandeliers, and 
 from wires strung across the room. From the center of 
 the ceiling, two brown papier-mache monkeys hung by 
 their tails. And the room was crowded, packed, with cos- 
 tumed dancers. 
 
 " Get our table, Father," Rita whispered to Webster 
 Moreland. "And champagne it's almost twelve." 
 
 They were finally collected; the dancers were whirling
 
 PROLOGUE 205 
 
 about the room, still a mass of color and confusion to the 
 newcomers, when the music stopped abruptly. 
 
 Mid-night. 
 
 Nineteen-se venteen . 
 
 There was a moment of silence ; then dancers began scam- 
 pering back to tables, cries of " Nineteen-seventeen! " shook 
 the hall. 
 
 " Nineteen-seventeen! " Webster Moreland rose and 
 held up his glass. Rita stood, round-eyed, her lips parted. 
 Across the table Donald was smiling at her. Lloyd, at 
 her right, made a movement towards her, but Donald was 
 quicker. He leaned across the table, regardless of the 
 champagne bottle that tipped over and drenched the cloth, 
 and kissed Rita. 
 
 " First kiss of Nineteen-seventeen, Miss Moreland," he 
 said triumphantly. " And you were so surprised that you 
 kissed me back. So there! " 
 
 Rita stood staring at him, still smiling. Then Lloyd 
 seized her, and John Cook pulled her from Lloyd to bear 
 her out on the floor triumphantly for a dance. 
 
 After New Year's, the winter seemed to slip away. It had 
 been the happiest winter of Rita's life; Donald had combined 
 the two crowds for her ; because he had liked people in each 
 crowd she had been able to share alike with them. She 
 had definitely made good with her work, and when a rival 
 concern offered her a position, Jim had urged her to accept it. 
 
 " After all, Rita," he had said, " there's not such a ter-
 
 206 PROLOGUE 
 
 rible lot of room for growth here. I'm just starting in and 
 you'll always be hampered by that. You ought to go with 
 the Blake crowd." 
 
 And Rita, reluctantly and eagerly, had gone to the new 
 concern, where she had an office of her own and almost 
 double the salary she had had with Jim. 
 
 The spring bore upon them, a spring whose gladness was 
 tempered by constant rumors of war. Rita could not pick 
 up a newspaper without hearing again her mother's words 
 of the summer before " I suppose Donald Wells will 
 go." The war was brought nearer to her by that, and she 
 fought against it in her mind and fought for it when she 
 was confronted by the pacifists at Martha's. The group 
 had grown solemn. Rita found herself avoiding them and 
 seeking Fran's where the conversation rarely climbed to 
 serious subjects. Donald seemed to have grown away from 
 her a little and at the same time to have grown nearer. 
 He went alone to Martha's and to Peg's the new baby, a 
 small girl, had arrived, and held court in the large front 
 living-room of the Washington Square apartment. Rita was 
 thrown more and more into association with Lloyd it was 
 for her a kind of relief from the pleasure of being with 
 Donald, pleasure that was marred by the sight of a news- 
 paper or a toy-soldier, by any suggestion of war. 
 
 March and its winds passed, and each day made the situa- 
 tion more tense, more unbearable. On April fifth, Rita had 
 gone to dinner with Lloyd, and afterwards to the theater. 
 The next day at the office was interrupted by the long-ex- 
 pected declaration. Rita sat in her living-room waiting for
 
 PROLOGUE 207 
 
 Donald, and wherever she looked, whatever she thought of, 
 the words streamed before her United States Declares War 
 on Germany. Rita was staring ahead of her at the empty 
 fireplace, when she heard Donald's steps on the stairs. She 
 ran forward and held up her face to him. Now that he had 
 come, the tears began streaming from her eyes; her breath 
 caught in her throat and turned into sobs. 
 
 4i Rita darling! " He was grave and gay and gentle all 
 at once. He kissed her, and Rita clung to him, her face still 
 lifted to his. 
 
 " Donald! " 
 
 They stood at the door for several minutes, and finally he 
 picked her up and carried her to the couch, put her down 
 gently. 
 
 " Don't, Rita darling." 
 
 " I can't help it. Kiss me, Donald." 
 
 She clung to him, trying not to think, trying only to be 
 happy because he loved her. 
 
 She wanted to persuade herself that that was all that 
 mattered. And she could not. 
 
 " Rita, you've got to stop. Please, Rita." She huddled 
 into an uncomfortable, frightened bunch at the corner of 
 the couch. 
 
 He talked to her, gently, quietly, but she did not listen; 
 not a word of what he said made the slightest impression on 
 her. 
 
 " Rita, listen. I'm not going to ask you to marry me 
 I don't want you to consider yourself in any way bound to 
 me. Are you listening, Rita? " 
 
 She was crying again, and he finally gave it up, and sat
 
 208 PROLOGUE 
 
 close to her, pulled her head down on his shoulder. She 
 went to sleep finally, like a small girl, and he carried her 
 down and put her on the bed in her own room. 
 
 In the morning when she appeared at breakfast, he smiled 
 at her cheerfully. 
 
 " I'm not going to work today," she said. 
 
 " Oh, yes, you are! " Donald interrupted, before either 
 her mother or father could speak. " Yes, you are, Rita. 
 This is no time to be failing in things, you know." 
 
 Rita looked at him dully. " All right," she said. 
 
 Donald came home that night with his enlistment papers 
 in his pocket. Rita could see that he was excited, gay 
 even. She knew that he wanted to suggest a party, and 
 did not dare. If he was going, she did not want him to 
 think of her as a tear-stained, cowardly person. She smiled 
 and kissed him quite gaily. 
 
 " Let's go and dance tonight," she said. 
 
 After that she was unusually gay; the realization that 
 Donald actually wanted to go appalled her; it was beyond 
 her comprehension. But she was too tired, too exhausted, 
 to talk with him, to try to understand. She accepted it, 
 as she accepted everything else. 
 
 The time of his going grew nearer. One day in the 
 living-room where they sat, evening after evening, talking, 
 she broke down again. 
 
 " Marry me before you go, Donald," she pleaded. 
 " Please. I'm afraid. I" 
 
 " Rita, you must listen," he said. " I haven't asked you 
 to marry me I shan't. You're not to feel in any way 
 bound you mustn't do that. We're both excited; this isn't
 
 PROLOGUE 209 
 
 a normal situation. You may not love me as much as 
 you think you do. It's impossible for you to know, 
 yet." 
 
 Rita looked up at him dully. " Please, Donald," she 
 begged. " I'm so afraid I'm please let's be married." 
 
 " Rita, what are you afraid of? " he asked, looking at her 
 gravely. Rita hung her head and was silent. " You're 
 afraid that you may love someone else, aren't you? " 
 
 " Oh, it isn't that! " she said. " But I want to make 
 sure of you I want to feel safe." 
 
 " You're not afraid that I'll love someone else? " He 
 laughed at the idea, and she laughed, too. 
 
 " No, not that, Donald. But oh, I don't want you to 
 leave me like this. If only you'd make me promise if 
 only" 
 
 " But that's what I won't do, dearest. You're in no 
 earthly way bound to me. You must understand that, 
 Rita." 
 
 She shook her head mournfully. 
 
 " You're an extremely forward young woman," he said 
 lightly. " What makes you think that I want to marry 
 you? Have I ever led you to believe such things? " 
 
 " Don't joke, Donald," she begged. " I can't bear it." 
 
 Finally the day came when Donald was to go. Rita 
 wondered what it was that women were supposed to find 
 attractive about uniforms. Donald looked handsome, of 
 course better than she had ever seen him, in his private's 
 khaki. But she would have given up all the khaki in the 
 world to see him back in the gray tweed suit he used to 
 wear. It had been a painfully long time, waiting for him to
 
 2io PROLOGUE 
 
 sail, and there was almost relief in her crying, after he had 
 gone. 
 
 It was over now. There couldn't be any more of it to 
 torture her. The day after he left, she worked desperately 
 at the office, and managed to turn out exceptionally good 
 work. She was getting ready to leave, when the telephone 
 rang. It was Fran, asking her to dinner and to a dance. 
 
 " Oh, yes yes! " Rita had said eagerly. 
 
 She went home and dressed feverishly, flung down the 
 first evening gown she had put on, because it did not suit 
 her. Lilias had never seen her so impatient, so difficult 
 to please. It took her almost an hour to arrange her hair 
 properly. She fussed and scolded like a debutante going 
 to her first dance. As she leaned towards the mirror for a 
 last glance at her reflection, her eyes caught on the picture of 
 Donald that hung beside it. She stared at it for a moment, 
 while Lilias watched her, half-frightened. Then she 
 laughed. 
 
 " Funny to think of Donald going to war and me going 
 to a dance, isn't it? " she asked. " Funny! Funny! " 
 
 Lilias stood looking after her, as she ran down the stairs, 
 and out to the waiting taxi.
 
 Part Three 
 
 CHAPTER ONE 
 
 I 
 
 June 1 6th, 1917. 
 
 IT'S hot tonight. Fran is at rehearsal still, and I'm 
 sitting here in a negligee, with a bottle of ginger-ale on the 
 desk beside me, trying to find out why I'm so frightened at 
 life. I've never been timid before curious, interested, 
 irritated, perhaps even shocked, but never frightened before. 
 I think I've been afraid ever since Donald left. When 
 Mother and Father went to Larchborough and Fran asked 
 me to stay with her, I was afraid. I wouldn't have been so 
 afraid to stay alone in the house, alone with the things I'm 
 used to. But here I didn't want to come to Fran's, but 
 then she said that she needed me, that she, too, was afraid 
 to stay alone. It seems strange that two such self-possessed 
 people as Fran and I should be frightened. I didn't want to 
 come here partly, I think, because Donald disliked Fran. 
 And because deep down in my heart, I disapprove, too, of 
 the things he dislikes, and because my disapproval is not 
 stronger than my love of them my love of excitement and 
 pleasure. And I was afraid to stay alone for fear the 
 temptation of playing, of useless things, would be quite as 
 strong there as here at Fran's. 
 
 211
 
 212 PROLOGUE 
 
 I'm ashamed that while Donald is fighting for something 
 really decent, I'm playing and wasting time. And I can't 
 help it. 
 
 Donald isn't a person to me any more I've lost the little 
 boy I used to play with in Boston; I've lost the man I 
 loved or thought I loved here in New York. I never let 
 Donald know me as I really am I tried to be for him what 
 he wanted me to be. And because he doesn't know me, I 
 don't know him. He's just an ideal for me, of the good 
 things the other things in life. Peg's crowd and a sort 
 of altruism. And that bores me. But Donald didn't bore 
 me perhaps because I was half in love with him, because 
 he was attractive to me. 
 
 I'm glad now that he didn't make me promise to marry 
 him; I'm glad oh, more relieved than I can put into words 
 that we weren't married. I don't know anything about 
 Donald really; I can't know anything about anyone until I 
 know more about myself. 
 
 I wonder what Rita Moreland is like what people think 
 of her. I'm pretty I'm almost nineteen years old. I'm 
 making good at my work, but I'm not frightfully interested 
 in it. Sometimes when I'm with Fran's crowd I'm 
 radical, fairly intelligent. But when I'm with Peg or 
 Martha I'm flippant, frivolous. Why can't people who have 
 brains powder their noses and clean their finger-nails? I'm 
 .small, I'm afraid. 
 
 It's hot and the trees in the park are drooping with it; 
 I'd like to go out and walk there and look up at the stars. 
 And then I'd like to sit down on one of the benches and 
 breathe in the hot air and have someone hold my hands
 
 PROLOGUE 213 
 
 all warm and content. Donald? Lloyd? I don't much 
 care. It's the weather for love, and I'm the age for it. 
 And it isn't Donald's sort of love that I want, a love that is 
 serious and clear-eyed, a love that looks toward the future 
 and the good of the world and the big things of life. I'm 
 bored utterly bored with the " big things of life ". I 
 want the little things, the little nestling pleasant things a 
 love that's gentle and oh, enfolding, like the Larchborough 
 lake warm and soft, unthinking. I've been reading poetry 
 Lord, I've even been writing it. I want someone to send 
 me a single white rose or, no, a red one. Perhaps even 
 red is too vital, just as white is too pure. A blue rose be- 
 cause blue roses are strange and rare and dreamy and 
 exotic. I can't think and so I don't want to. I want 
 merely to feel and to feel something besides boredom. 
 
 " Gone with the wind flung roses, roses riotously with 
 the throng " no, even that has too much energy. I don't 
 want to do anything riotously. 
 
 Sara Teasdale's poem about Central Park and the fair- 
 ies the park looks like that tonight. And yet even that 
 had a grain of sincerity lurking somewhere. I want play 
 but gentle play. I have a sneaking suspicion that I'm 
 either funny or pathetic; I don't know which. Why, when 
 I'm feeling languid and poetic and lonely, must there always 
 be an active, quick-minded, red-headed little Rita Moreland 
 somewhere, who watches me and grins and laughs? Oh, 
 perhaps I am funny I don't care. I'm bored, and I won't 
 be bored any longer. 
 
 I won't won't I won't!
 
 2i 4 PROLOGUE 
 
 II 
 
 " Do you ever wonder what we're for, Fran? I mean 
 what life is about, anyway? " Rita was sitting cross-legged 
 on the couch, surrounded by books and magazines. 
 
 Fran looked up from her darning and smiled. " Heavens, 
 Rita! " 
 
 " Oh, I know it's awfully young and all that. But, Fran, 
 we are young. And I do wonder." 
 
 Fran put her work aside, and rocked gently for a moment. 
 " We used to talk a lot about life in school, didn't we? " 
 she said. " We don't talk any more. I think it's because 
 we're ashamed to be serious. I don't know. You're all at 
 loose ends now, aren't you? " 
 
 " Yes. Aren't you? " 
 
 " More or less. After I got out of school and got to New 
 York, I had a bunch of hard knocks. It's not having any 
 home that makes life hard for a girl, I think. And you and 
 I haven't had any real homes. Dad, of course, is impos- 
 sible. We've had to work things out quite by ourselves, 
 you and I women don't help each other much, do they, 
 Rita?" 
 
 Rita hesitated. " I think it's because they don't know 
 how, Fran. We always get embarrassed and confused 
 when we try to talk. We're so inarticulate. I want to ask 
 questions right now of you, because you're older than I; 
 of Peg and Martha and Lucy. But I don't quite know what 
 the questions are. It's just life." 
 
 " You're lonely, Rita."
 
 PROLOGUE 215 
 
 "Terribly. But I don't know what I miss. Donald. . ." 
 
 " Do you love Donald? " 
 
 " How do I know, Fran? Sometimes I think I do. I 
 miss him, and it almost kills me to think of him over there. 
 But then I find myself wanting to flirt with other people, 
 and" 
 
 " That doesn't mean anything," Fran said. " I think that 
 when you love someone you you want to love everyone. 
 You're so full of love, so It is hard to talk about it, 
 Rita." 
 
 " Have you ever been in love, Fran? " 
 
 Fran laughed. " I don't know. I I thought I was 
 once. But I guess he didn't care for me. I oh, Rita! " 
 
 They smiled; Fran picked up her darning again, but 
 Rita sat quietly, her hands folded in her lap. Fran couldn't 
 help her; she would have to find things out for herself. 
 Life seemed an aimless thing; it was as though everyone 
 else knew what he wanted and how to get it. But for 
 her. . . . Her work had interested her; it was interesting 
 still. But it was disconnected from reality; it was a mere 
 playing with words and pictures and ideas. She did not 
 know what to do with herself in the evenings; Saturday 
 afternoons and Sundays were long, dragging hours, in which 
 she read or sewed or talked with people. Talking with 
 people had lost its interest; she was primarily interested 
 in Rita Moreland, but she was not enough of an egoist to 
 let other people know that. Life and Rita Moreland the 
 two, closely woven, inextricable. She wished passionately 
 that she could become enthusiastic about something any- 
 thing. If only she wanted to do something; social work
 
 216 PROLOGUE 
 
 for the poor, educating the heathen anything at all. She 
 was interested in woman suffrage but the idea of giving her 
 time to it, of thinking it, talking it, living it, as women she 
 had met were doing, bored her unspeakably. 
 
 It would have to be something more human than any- 
 thing she had known to hold her interest. Love she knew, 
 deep down in her heart, that it was love she wanted. She 
 was not in the knight-in-armor period of her life; she did 
 not want had never wanted to collect photographs of a 
 stage favorite, or autographs of a moving-picture hero. She 
 wanted reality a man who interested her, who could open 
 life before her. She hated to admit that her happiness, her 
 contentment, rested solely in the hands of some man. It 
 was unfeministic, absurd. But it was true. She wanted 
 to share life with someone; things would not be so futile, 
 so useless, if there was someone with whom to talk about 
 them, someone who was interested. 
 
 She envied Donald, envied all men, because they could 
 enjoy life alone. They could have their adventure with- 
 out companionship; they could enjoy beauty in solitude 
 without feeling the lack of someone to delight with them. 
 Women were not free. Rita was independent; there was no 
 one to set down rules for her life. But she was lonely in 
 her independence; life was incomplete, unsatisfying. 
 
 She sighed, and Fran smiled encouragingly. 
 
 " Shall we go out to dinner tonight? " she asked. 
 
 " Out to dinner? " Rita repeated. " Oh." She looked at 
 Fran wistfully for a moment. " Oh, what does it matter? 
 What does it matter? " she asked.
 
 PROLOGUE 217 
 
 III 
 
 July 26th, 1917. 
 DEAR ROY: 
 
 I'm nineteen years old today, and I'm thinking of you. 
 It's three whole years since I've really seen you, except for 
 the stingy little time we had together last summer when 
 you motored through. 
 
 I wish you lived in New York we'd have such fun 
 together. Don't you ever come on for business? 
 
 I'm working hard, of course, but I'm damnably lonely 
 New York can be a lonely city, too. I suppose any place 
 can. 
 
 I can't write a decent letter; I 
 
 Rita pushed the letter paper away from her and scowled 
 at it. Fran was lying on the couch, reading the Sunday 
 newspapers; the windows were open wide, and the air that 
 drifted in was sticky and dust-laden. The white roses in 
 the bowl on the center of the table were brown with wilt; 
 as Rita looked at them, a crumpled petal fluttered to the 
 floor. 
 
 She read again what she had written, and tore the paper 
 into small pieces. "Idiot! " she said. 
 
 " Huh? " Fran smiled drowsily, and stretched out her 
 arms. " Doesn't go? " 
 
 "It does not! " Rita answered. "Fran, I'm an awful 
 fool." 
 
 " Oh, yes." Fran turned the pages of the supplement
 
 218 PROLOGUE 
 
 languidly; the very newspaper was so hot that it did not 
 crackle as she folded it. 
 
 Rita got up and walked across the room aimlessly. Her 
 hair hung in a long braid over her negligee; her forehead 
 was hot. 
 
 " Let's get out of New York for a time," she said sud- 
 denly. 
 
 "Where? How?" 
 
 Rita pulled the faded flowers from the bowl and tossed 
 them impatiently into the waste-basket. " Oh I can get 
 a vacation. You aren't busy now you can get away. 
 Let's go down on Long Island somewhere, where there's 
 swimming/' 
 
 " Just us? " 
 
 "No, let's get someone I don't care who for a chap- 
 eron. And take Lloyd." 
 
 Fran laughed. " Who'll be a halfway decent chaperon? " 
 she asked. 
 
 Rita stood by the window. " I don't want Peg and 
 Jim the baby's such a bore. And do you know the 
 Burtons? " 
 
 " Ralph Burton? " 
 
 " Yes, the painter. His wife is quite a dear, too I'm 
 going to telephone them." 
 
 " Where'll we go? " 
 
 " Oh, Fran" Rita looked at her helplessly. " Don't 
 be so annoying. We'll get a place." She sat down at the 
 table, and pulled the telephone from beneath the dejected 
 ruffled skirts of the Marie- Antoinette doll. 
 
 That was Sunday morning; on Tuesday afternoon they
 
 PROLOGUE 219 
 
 were waiting together in the Pennsylvania Station, the 
 Burtons, Phil Burton, a younger brother, Lloyd, Fran, and 
 Rita. Annette Burton had snatched eagerly at an oppor- 
 tunity for going to the country; Ralph, she said, was working 
 too hard and needed the sea, and to crown it all, they had 
 recently bought a ramshackle farmhouse on Long Island, 
 four hours from New York, that needed painting and patch- 
 ing up. They had planned to do it themselves, but Rita 
 and Fran entered enthusiastically into the idea of helping. 
 
 The farmhouse was a long walk from the station, and they 
 trudged along wearily, the three men carrying bundles of 
 blankets and provisions, the three women with suitcases 
 and packages. 
 
 " We look exactly like an immigrant family," Annette 
 said, laughing. " But never mind." 
 
 When she swung open the gate at the foot of the path, 
 they dropped their bundles and sat down exhaustedly on 
 the grass. The house itself was little more than a shell; 
 it had not been occupied for many years. But the heavy 
 timber that had been laid in place more than a hundred 
 years before had borne the storms valiantly, and grown to a 
 rich, weathered gray. The yard was a tangle of grass and 
 wild flowers; near the house ancient rose bushes were blos- 
 soming, and shooting forth long, scraggly branches. 
 
 " We got the place for a song," said Ralph Burton. " Of 
 course it needs thousands of dollars' worth of repairs. 
 It" 
 
 " No heat, no light, no plumbing except a sink with a 
 pump. No nothing. We sent down a bunch of furniture 
 that was overflowing our New York place one reason we
 
 220 PROLOGUE 
 
 bought the house it's cheaper than storage," Annette inter- 
 rupted. 
 
 " Our land goes down to the water," her husband con- 
 tinued. " The deed was rather amusing we had to promise 
 to allow the descendants of the old Dillingham family who 
 built the place, to unload any cargo on our beach, and carry 
 it across our land." 
 
 " And there's an old graveyard of dead sea-cap'ns," con- 
 cluded Annette. " Let's go inside." 
 
 It was a typical farmhouse of the century before; the 
 rooms were small and low ceilinged, with many-paned 
 windows; there were unexpected steps and passages and 
 closets everywhere. 
 
 " Look at this room," Ralph Burton said. " There are 
 nine doors to it, counting the brick oven! " 
 
 They chose their rooms and threw down their bags. 
 
 "Who's going swimming with 'me?" called Lloyd. 
 
 " Not I," said Fran. 
 
 "I'm going to start supper," Annette answered. 
 
 "Til go," Rita called. 
 
 " And I," Phil Burton appeared in the hall. " Ralph? " 
 
 " Cotter chop wood." 
 
 So the three started down the path together. Phil Bur- 
 ton was younger than his brother; tall, like him, but awk- 
 ward and ungainly. The irregular features that made 
 Ralph handsome, gave Phil the appearance of a small 
 boy. 
 
 " Back to the farm! " he murmured. " And gee, it feels 
 good." He stopped suddenly and turned a handspring on 
 the grass. " Like the country, Rita? "
 
 PROLOGUE 221 
 
 " Yes." Rita smiled at Lloyd, and took his hand as she 
 climbed over a fence. 
 
 Phil gamboled ahead of them, like a boy or a puppy, 
 flecking the grass and flowers with a stick he had picked 
 up, kicking stones and pieces of dead grass with his shoes, 
 sniffing the salt air exuberantly. 
 
 " It's nice to be here with you, Rita," Lloyd said softly. 
 
 Rita smiled. She was thoroughly content; the smell of 
 the earth and the sea, the wind that ruffled the grass and 
 swayed the trees was so much more enjoyable at Long 
 Island with Lloyd, than it would have been in Larchborough. 
 Larchborough, besides being the country, always brought 
 back her childhood ; people there still treated her as a little 
 girl. But here, in a strange town, she had both the coun- 
 try and her maturity; she could run and skip as much as 
 she liked; there was no cause for dignity. 
 
 Fran developed a personality entirely new to Rita; she 
 had none of the reserve or dignity of boarding-school, none 
 of the languor or sophistication of New York. She put on 
 a pair of tweed breeches, slightly theatrical in cut, but 
 wholly serviceable, and a most unbecoming khaki shirt. 
 She did not bother to curl her hair, but knotted it at her 
 -neck and fastened it with a ribbon that was always slipping 
 over one ear. And she played enthusiastically with Phil; 
 she chopped wood and cooked, she tramped and picked 
 berries until her white hands were torn and rough and 
 stained. 
 
 The Burtons kept to themselves throughout the day, and 
 Lloyd and Rita walked lazily, or sat on the beach and 
 talked through the whole week.
 
 222 PROLOGUE 
 
 They were all sitting on the grass at the side of the 
 house, the remains of the supper spread on a white cloth. 
 
 " You two kids don't seem to be real country people," 
 Burton said to Lloyd and Rita, who were sitting together, 
 a little apart from the others. " Look at those slippers 
 of Rita's." 
 
 Rita thrust out a foot and regarded the French-heeled 
 slipper thoughtfully. 
 
 " You ought to be climbing trees and ruining your clothes 
 like Fran here." 
 
 " Oh, Rita and Evans aren't much for the cows and 
 chickens," said Phil. " They sit and talk about art or life 
 or something and don't know whether they're in New York 
 or Hongkong." 
 
 As Rita looked up, she caught Fran's eyes, looking at 
 her thoughtfully, and yet so veiled by thought that they 
 seemed not to see her. 
 
 " Oh, I like the country all right," she said carelessly. 
 " Just to prove it, Lloyd and I are going walking tonight 
 and enjoy it, instead of sitting on the piazza and playing 
 cards the way you all do." 
 
 Again Fran's eyes traveled from her to Lloyd thoughtfully. 
 " It's so quiet and peaceful here," she said, " that it's almost 
 incredible that men are dying across this same water." 
 
 Rita looked at her deliberately. " I can't believe it," she 
 said, and she was speaking to Fran alone. " I've absolutely 
 forgotten that there's a war." 
 
 She and Lloyd wandered off down the country road; the 
 sky was beginning to darken. 
 
 " First star! " Rita said suddenly. She stood quite still,
 
 PROLOGUE 223 
 
 her hands folded behind her back. " Star light, star bright, 
 first star I've seen tonight wish I may, wish I might, have 
 this wish I wish tonight," she chanted. For another 
 moment she stood looking up at the sky, her face white in 
 the light. She did not look at Lloyd as he came towards 
 her; when she finally lowered her head he was directly in 
 front of her. She returned his kiss simply. " Got my wish," 
 she said. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She smiled at him gently, and he drew her into his arms 
 and kissed her again for a long time. When he released her, 
 she sighed happily, and they walked quietly along the road. 
 She felt suddenly suffused with contentment; she was a 
 woman now, nineteen years old. And it was summer and 
 someone loved her not too much; just a nice, pleasant 
 little love for the summer-time. 
 
 " Good to be loved, and to love for a little, and then 
 well to forget, be forgotten, ere loving grow life," she quoted 
 softly. 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 She looked up and smiled dreamily. " Hearts on a holi- 
 day," she said, as though she were reminding him. " Lloyd 
 dear, I love you tonight." 
 
 "Rita! " He took her arm roughly. "Tonight! " he 
 repeated. " Rita, I love you tonight and last night and 
 tomorrow night. I think I've always loved you, ever since 
 I met you two years ago. Will you marry me, Rita? " 
 
 Rita laughed. " Lloyd silly !" she said. "Of course 
 not. ' Hearts on a holiday ', Lloyd. Don't spoil it, or I 
 shan't love you even tonight."
 
 224 PROLOGUE 
 
 He was silent for a moment. " But, Rita, I do care," he 
 said. " Don't you" 
 
 " Hearts on a holiday," she repeated severely. " Lloyd 
 can't catch me! " She darted ahead into the darkness, and 
 he hesitated a moment before he ran after her. " Oh, 
 yes," she said, when he had caught her, " the reward's 
 always a kiss, Lloyd. But then no more. Let's pretend 
 let's pretend that I'm a beautiful princess who has been 
 locked in a great garden. There are dragons with red 
 tongues all round the wall, and sea-serpents in the moat. 
 But you braved them all you're the prince, you see and 
 you've come inside. And now you've got to be very charm- 
 ing, even though you have been so brave. Because I'm not 
 the sort of princess who would give my love just because 
 the prince had killed the dragons." 
 
 " But, dearest " 
 
 " Going to pretend, Lloyd? " 
 
 The moon had come up, and he was watching her face. 
 " Yes," he said finally, and sighed. " Fair maiden " 
 
 IV 
 
 Fifth Avenue looked strangely untidy; women in dark 
 skirts and soiled white shirtwaists, men carrying their coats 
 and hats, taxi-divers in their shirt-sleeves, dusty automobiles, 
 children eating peanuts. . . . Rita sat on the top of a 'bus, 
 fairly cool in her brown linen suit; her blouse was crisp, and 
 the yellow daisies at her belt were unwithered. 
 
 She walked to her office briskly and smiled at the stenog- 
 raphers who were pounding their machines aimlessly. She
 
 PROLOGUE 225 
 
 emptied the faded flowers from the vase on her desk and 
 put in fresh ones, turned to the mail in her basket. She 
 was working, her coat still crisp on the hanger that hung 
 from the back of the door, her sleeves rolled up over her 
 arms, when Blake, head of the Blake Advertising Company, 
 came in. 
 
 " Good-morning," Rita said, smiling. He was a big man; 
 in the winter his hair seemed less flagrantly blond, his face 
 was not so pink. And he did not wear pink and white 
 striped satin shirts without a coat. Rita wrinkled her 
 nose in distaste as he sat down in the chair beside her 
 desk. " What can I do for you? " she asked crisply. " I'm 
 pretty busy " 
 
 " Never mind that." He pushed the fresh sheets of 
 paper back from her desk with his dirty pink hand. " The 
 work can wait. You look pale, Miss Moreland." 
 
 Rita looked at him humorously; her cheeks were tanned 
 from the week-end with the Burtons, and despite the hot 
 weather of her first New York summer, she had been gain- 
 ing in weight. 
 
 " I'm feeling splendidly," she said. " Is there anything 
 you want to see me about, Mr. Blake? " 
 
 He laughed and stretched out his legs in a leisurely fash- 
 ion. " I just came in to call," he said. " You needn't get 
 that stuff out so fast." 
 
 Rita shrugged her shoulders; after all, wasn't there some- 
 thing about being more royalist than the king? 
 
 " I'm going to take my vacation, Miss Moreland," he said. 
 
 " It's time you did," Rita agreed. " You've been work- 
 ing hard."
 
 226 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Going on a yacht up along the Canadian coast. Pretty 
 trip." 
 
 " Yes." Rita looked at him for a moment. " Was there 
 anything in particular " she began again. 
 
 He laughed. " Why don't you come out to dinner with 
 me tonight? " he asked. " We can go to a show or a roof 
 afterwards." 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't, Mr. Blake." 
 
 " Engaged? " 
 
 Rita pushed back her chair and looked at him for a 
 moment. Horrid fat thing. " No," she said. 
 
 " Then you'll come." 
 
 " No, Mr. Blake, I I don't think I'd better." 
 
 He laughed easily. " Sure you'll come," he said. " I'll 
 trot along back to my office now shall I call for you at 
 seven? " 
 
 " I really can't go, Mr. Blake." 
 
 " Seven." He smiled again, masterfully, and went out. 
 
 Rita sat quietly after he had left, looking at the smirched 
 papers on her desk. Her work was well in order; she had 
 finished most of the odd bits of business to show Blake 
 before he left New York. And after all why not? It was 
 hot, and she had saved a good bit of her salary each week 
 she thanked her Moreland inheritance for that. 
 
 She drew out a clean sheet of paper and wrote her 
 resignation quickly; then she slipped it into an envelope, 
 addressed it, and put it in her mail basket. She put on her 
 coat and hat calmly, and walked out of the office. 
 
 The day had grown hotter with the rising sun; it was 
 past eleven, and there was nothing to eat in the apartment.
 
 PROLOGUE 227 
 
 She stood uncertainly on the pavement, and then decided 
 to go down to get Lloyd for luncheon; he was working at 
 home, she knew. She walked down the Avenue and across 
 to his apartment. The door was open, and she went in 
 without knocking. He was sitting at his typewriter, his 
 dark hair mussed by his nervous fingers, scowling over the 
 page that protruded from the machine. 
 
 "Rita! I'm awfully glad you came." He held out 
 his hand and she sat down on the couch and lighted a 
 cigarette. 
 
 " Just threw up my job," she explained. 
 
 " Why? " 
 
 " Tired of it, I guess. I don't care much for Blake, 
 anyway." 
 
 Lloyd wheeled about and looked at her. " Was he " 
 
 " Oh, no I'm just bored with it all. How's work 
 going? " 
 
 " Rotten. You've come to have lunch with me? " 
 
 " Yes shall I get it ready here? " 
 
 " That would be splendid." 
 
 She walked over and peered at the sheet on his type- 
 writer. " Finish that chapter while I'm getting things 
 ready I'll run out to the delicatessen." She waved him 
 back as he started to get up. 
 
 They talked late after luncheon, and Rita sat while he 
 read her what he had written. 
 
 " Give me all your first day of freedom, Rita," he begged. 
 " Telephone Fran that you won't be home for dinner." 
 
 " All right." Rita walked across to the table and tele- 
 phoned. " She's going out, anyway. Where'll we go? "
 
 228 PROLOGUE 
 
 He stood looking at her. " What are you tonight? The 
 fairy princess or the freed working girl or " 
 
 " I'm just me," said Rita. " Now where'll you take me? " 
 
 He laughed. " Where I want to go, then. We'll go to 
 the Park Avenue and sit in the garden." 
 
 Their table was near the fountain, and Rita half-closed 
 her eyes as they sat down. The courtyard was only dimly 
 lighted, and the tablecloths were like fallen stars when you 
 looked through half-closed eyes. The water in the fountain 
 splashed, and there was a subdued tinkle of china and 
 glass. 
 
 " You guessed right, Lloyd," she said. " I like this 
 better than any other place in the world tonight." 
 
 They were silent through dinner; the evening was cool, 
 and their contentment was so great that they did not want 
 to talk. They sat over coffee and liqueurs for almost an 
 hour. 
 
 " It's so peaceful and lovely," Rita said. " I suppose 
 we might as well go, but I don't want it ever to end. I'm 
 happy, Lloyd." 
 
 " Come over to my place and talk for a time we might 
 try to get hold of Fran." 
 
 Rita smiled. Neither of them wanted Fran, and Lloyd 
 knew that she knew it. 
 
 She thought idly of Ed Sibley, as they climbed the stairs 
 to Lloyd's apartment. The living-room was deep with 
 shadows; the heavy walnut book-cases melted into dark- 
 ness; Lloyd's great mahogany desk gleamed in the light of 
 the street lamps. He lighted the candles on the reading 
 table, and the sconces at either end of the room. For a
 
 PROLOGUE 229 
 
 moment they sputtered; then their light was steady and 
 soft. 
 
 " It's a nice place," Rita said, sinking comfortably into 
 a chair by the window. " Fran did wonders with it for 
 you, Lloyd you haven't any sense at all about fixing a 
 place." 
 
 "I haven't any sense about lots of things," he said, 
 sitting on the floor at her feet. " That's why I want you 
 to marry me." 
 
 " Sounds uncomplimentary," Rita said, " but I know what 
 you mean." 
 
 " Don't you care at all, Rita? " 
 
 " A great deal. But I won't marry you." 
 
 He got up impatiently, and walked up and down the 
 room; stood looking out the window for a moment. 
 " But do you think it's fair of you, Rita? " he asked 
 finally. 
 
 Rita stretched back in her chair languidly. " Fair of 
 me? " she repeated. 
 
 " When you know I want you so much? " 
 
 He came and stood facing her, and Rita smiled gently 
 at him. Then she got up and took both his hands. " Kiss 
 me, Lloyd." 
 
 For a moment he hesitated; then he took her into his 
 arms. " Oh, Rita, I could " He turned away from her 
 angrily. " I'd like to spank you," he said. 
 
 Rita laughed. It was peaceful to have Lloyd with her; 
 she liked the ruggedness of his place after the clear sunni- 
 ness of Fran's. " Lloyd dear," she said gently. " I've just 
 said just that I wouldn't marry you."
 
 230 PROLOGUE 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 " But I love you very much, and " She waited for 
 him to come and hold her close again. 
 
 They sat quietly together on the couch, and for a long 
 time they said nothing; they hardly dared touch each other. 
 Rita sighed happily. 
 
 " Let's go away somewhere," Lloyd said suddenly. " To- 
 night tomorrow. To the country where we can be quite 
 alone. Let's " 
 
 "All right," said Rita. "We can go tomorrow. You 
 bring your typewriter and work, and I'll keep house we'll 
 get a little place. Oh, Lloyd " 
 
 She put her head on his shoulder, and closed her eyes. 
 Gradually his arm about her lost its tenseness; she stirred 
 a little until she was comfortable. She could hear his heart 
 thumping; her own was strangely quiet. He was quiet, 
 and they sat motionless, subdued. 
 
 Lloyd's arm about her tightened; she looked up at him 
 lazily. He seemed almost frightened; there was a strange 
 tightness about his mouth. Funny that he should be afraid. 
 He had loved people. She was the one who should be 
 frightened. 
 
 " What is it, dear? " she asked. 
 
 He smiled as he looked down at her, a smile that was 
 tender. " Nothing, dear. You you're not afraid? " 
 
 " Afraid? " 
 
 Close to her ear, his heart was pounding; Rita's eyes 
 were bewildered. 
 
 " Oh, Rita you do know? You won't be sorry? " 
 
 " Sorry, Lloyd? Won't it be very beautiful? "
 
 PROLOGUE 231 
 
 " Oh, yes! " He was smiling uncertainly now. " You 
 you do want me? " 
 
 Rita stifled the matter-of-fact " Of course " that was trem- 
 bling on her lips. " Oh, Lloyd! " she said. He leaned 
 forward and pulled her into his arms. 
 
 Suddenly he drew away from her, sat tensely, listen- 
 ing. 
 
 The door of the apartment opened. 
 
 " Hello, kids! " Fran said. 
 
 Rita looked up silently. 
 
 " Hello," Lloyd said at last. 
 
 " I've been telephoning about madly trying to get hold 
 of you, Rita Blake telephoned the house and thought I 
 was you. He wouldn't believe I wasn't. What's all this 
 about giving up your job? " 
 
 " I gave it up," said Rita. 
 
 Fran laughed and threw off her coat. " I'm going to sit 
 down even if you don't ask me to," she said. 
 
 Lloyd got up hastily and pulled out a chair. There was 
 a moment's silence. 
 
 " I don't want to bust up the party," said Fran. " Were 
 you reading your manuscript, Lloyd? Go right along if 
 you were." 
 
 " We weren't reading," said Rita. 
 
 " Then let's talk. Where'd you have dinner? " 
 
 " Oh, Fran! " Rita looked at her reproachfully. 
 
 " Yes, dear? " 
 
 Rita leaned back against the pillow and scowled. " Give 
 me a cigarette, someone." 
 
 " I went up to Claremont for dinner with Phil Burton
 
 232 PROLOGUE 
 
 he's a nice kid, Rita. He's doing awfully interesting work 
 here. He" 
 
 Rita hurled one of the cushions on the floor, and Fran 
 looked up mildly. " Oh, Fran go home! " 
 
 Fran laughed. " Why, Rita! Shall I go home, Lloyd? " 
 
 Lloyd was silent. 
 
 " We're pretty stupid," said Fran, " and Lloyd looks 
 tired. Come on home with me, Rita." 
 
 " I'm going to stay," Rita said sullenly. 
 
 " All right. Give me a cigarette then." 
 
 Rita got up indignantly. " Fran won't you please " 
 
 Fran's eyes met hers smilingly. 
 
 " Oh, all right. I'll come along with you." Rita picked 
 up her coat and hat indignantly. " Good-night, Lloyd." 
 
 " But, Rita Fran " 
 
 " Good-night, Lloyd," said Fran. " I know you hate me. 
 But good-night." 
 
 They went out together and took a 'bus silently, walked 
 silently to their apartment house. 
 
 Rita was all the more angry with Fran because of a 
 certain relief that was stealing over her. She had been drift- 
 ing, wondering. . . Fran had cheated her of her chance to 
 be strong. Perhaps. . . And she was angry, furious with 
 Lloyd. They entered their apartment silently. 
 
 " I'm going to Larchborough tomorrow," Rita said 
 abruptly. 
 
 " That will be nice," said Fran. " Oh, Rita" 
 
 Rita jerked her arm from Fran's hand. They undressed 
 without speaking. 
 
 " Rita dear"
 
 PROLOGUE 233 
 
 Rita turned off the light and climbed into bed. Fran 
 stood, hesitating for a moment. " I'm sorry, Rita," she 
 said. " But " She got into her own bed without say- 
 ing anything more.
 
 CHAPTER TWO 
 
 RITA settled herself in the train and looked about curiously 
 at the other people in the car. It was not until the engine 
 snorted and the train jerked forward, settled into its monot- 
 onous, buzzing glide, that she thought about New York and 
 Lloyd and Fran. She had packed her things hurriedly and 
 come away without a word to anyone, with only the curtest 
 nod to Fran. She did not know why her resentment welled 
 so against Lloyd, but she felt that she never wanted to see 
 him again. She flushed as she thought of the evening 
 before, of her anger and humiliation. 
 
 Already, she felt that she was out of New York ; the rows 
 of untidy tenement houses, with untidy women leaning from 
 the windows, with soiled sheets and pillows cluttering the 
 fire-escapes, was not New York. It was strange that simply 
 taking a taxi to the station and boarding a train could 
 bring her so far away in so short a time. She felt that 
 miles years separated her from the city she had been a 
 part of only the day before. New York was like a hyp- 
 notist; within its limits it held you tenaciously, guarded you, 
 according to its own ideas. But once outside, its power 
 faded; already Rita found her mind more clear, her vision 
 less biased. Outside the city, she thought about the Rita 
 Moreland who lived in New York as another person 
 and she wondered at her. 
 
 234
 
 PROLOGUE 235 
 
 As the train drove deeper into the country, her content- 
 ment increased. The complexities of life were either dulled 
 or washed away by the open sunshine, by the thick shades. 
 Larchborough. . . . She had been unhappy there, but she 
 knew, as though she could foresee it, that the rest of the 
 summer was going to be suffused with calm. 
 
 Once in Larchborough, to all appearances, she was merely 
 a tired young business woman, resting for another year of 
 hard work. She kept much to herself; in her new detach- 
 ment she wanted to think over the things she had done and 
 learned during the year before. Coming to Larchborough 
 from New York was like coming home from a gay and event- 
 ful party; she could kick off the satin slippers that were too 
 tight, and unfasten her dress, sit and recall, one by one, 
 the amusing and entertaining and unpleasant events that 
 had crowded the hours before. She did not understand the 
 peace that filled her soul, but she did not probe deeply 
 into its reason for being. It was enough that she was 
 content. 
 
 The Larchborough boys sought her attention in vain; 
 Roy Warren, coming down with Estelle for a visit, found 
 her subdued and quiet. She talked well about a surprising 
 number of things; the old conversations on the piazza with 
 Roy and her father began again. But she was plainly 
 detached and impersonal; two or three times Roy tried to 
 draw her out, and found her, not stubborn, not uninterested, 
 but strangely aloof. And she was or seemed quite un- 
 aware that she puzzled her friends; she accepted life with 
 the complacency of middle-age. 
 
 " The man Rita cares for is at the war," Lilias explained
 
 236 PROLOGUE 
 
 to Bobby, when he came to her, bewildered and hurt at 
 Rita's lack of interest in his approaches. Lilias had no 
 idea how near she may have come to the truth; she was 
 more than doubtful that it was Donald who had created the 
 change in her tempestuous young daughter. 
 
 But Bobby nodded understandingly, and went away, more 
 enraged than ever with his father and mother for not hav- 
 ing brought him into the world a few years sooner, and 
 for being so firm now in their stand that he must not 
 enlist. 
 
 Rita scarcely realized the existence of Bobby. During 
 her first weeks at home, she felt only a sense of gratitude 
 for the peace and simplicity of life. Nothing was hurried; 
 there was no bother of deciding where to dine or what to 
 do. The very mechanics of life were as subdued as the 
 landscape. She found th'at there were many books she had 
 not read the New York newspapers came to her regularly 
 and she went through them with a new interest and 
 thoroughness. She found her mind more open to ideas than 
 it had been since her first month in New York; she sent 
 to the city for books and pamphlets that were referred to; 
 she regretted, for the first time, that she had not gone to 
 college. She wrote to Peg and to Martha, and received long, 
 full letters in return. 
 
 Her disordered mind found relief in the routine she set 
 out for herself. She got up at half-past seven every morn- 
 ing, and swam alone across the lake before breakfast. She 
 refused the automobile, and walked the dusty mile of road 
 to the post-office each morning. Back at the house, she 
 read the newspapers and her letters. Usually she played
 
 PROLOGUE 237 
 
 tennis with her father before luncheon, and appeared in 
 the dining-room, fresh and glowing after her second swim. 
 In the afternoon she read until tea-time, and then daily 
 surprised her mother and any guest who happened to stray 
 in, by coming to the tea-table in a more sociable frame of 
 mind than they had ever seen in her. She talked with 
 Larchborough women whom she had hitherto avoided as 
 dull; she listened to Larchborough scandal, and discussed 
 the high cost of living. 
 
 " You've changed so, Rita," Lilias said one afternoon as 
 they sat on the piazza waiting for their tea. " I can't 
 understand you at all. You're nice to people now old 
 bores like that Mrs. Ashe. And " 
 
 Rita laughed. " I guess I'm growing up, Mother. I'm 
 happier than I've ever been God knows why. I've had 
 indigestion for three years, ever since I tried to swallow New 
 York whole, and now at last, I seem to have it more or 
 less digested." 
 
 The maid wheeled the tea wagon through the glass doors, 
 and Rita stood up to push aside her chair and make room 
 for it. Lilias looked at her admiringly; she was no longer 
 jealous of Rita Rita had changed from a pretty, rather 
 flirtatious girl, into a calm young woman whom she could 
 not regard wholly as a woman. There was something boyish 
 about Rita, about her freshness and crispness, the quick 
 way she lighted a cigarette, the deftness of her brown hands, 
 as now, when she was pouring out tea. While she had under- 
 stood Rita, had recognized moods and expressions, she had 
 resented that her daughter played her own game so well. 
 But now that Rita was no longer a real rival, now that she
 
 238 PROLOGUE 
 
 had become an entirely different type of woman from Lilias, 
 the resentment vanished. 
 
 Rita became suddenly aware of her mother's scrutiny, 
 and smiled. 
 
 " Happy, Mother? " she asked 
 
 " Yes." Lilias smiled back as she took her cup of tea, 
 and Rita watched her. She was still beautiful, still soft 
 and appealing. Her hair showed no gray; it was only 
 slightly less lustrous than when Rita first remembered it. 
 And although her skin had lost its freshness, it was well 
 cared for, and her great eyes were still lovely. 
 
 " If you had your life to live over, would you marry 
 Father? " Rita asked her suddenly. 
 
 Lilias put down the tea-cup abruptly. Rita did not 
 realize that it was the first time she had ever asked a con- 
 fidence of her mother. "Why Rita! " Lilias said. She 
 looked at her curiously. " I don't know," she said at last. 
 " I think I'd marry him. But I'd work ever so much 
 harder to keep him. You see " She stopped, embar- 
 rassed, but Rita was looking at her steadily. " I love your 
 father, you see," she said. 
 
 Rita leaned over and patted her hand. " Marriage is such 
 a funny thing," she said. " I suppose Father wanted you 
 because you were what you are all the soft, lovely, fragrant 
 things you've always been and then didn't like it because 
 you kept on being them." 
 
 " I wonder how you know that," said Lilias. " I wouldn't, 
 and your father certainly wouldn't. You're not much like 
 us. You" 
 
 " I'm sorry you haven't been happy, Mother," said Rita.
 
 PROLOGUE 239 
 
 " I suppose I haven't been very nice. When I first under- 
 stood that you loved other people I was horrified. Kids 
 are such little prudes. I remember I was a violent anti- 
 suffragist when I was nine, because I didn't think it was 
 ladylike of women to want to vote. But now " She 
 hesitated. Lilias was flushing, and Rita smiled comfort- 
 ingly. " I just want to tell you that I do understand, Mother. 
 And that I not pity you; it isn't that just that I'm 
 sorry." 
 
 " I'm sorry," Lilias said. " Happiness I did want to be 
 happy. And I would have been, but You see, I do love 
 your father." 
 
 They both turned as he came up the path from the lake. 
 Lilias looked warningly at her daughter, and Rita smiled. 
 " We were talking about you, Father," she said. 
 
 " Oh? " Webster Moreland, brown and angular, looked 
 at them with amusement. 
 
 " Yes. Sometime why don't you give us a chance to talk 
 to you, Father? " 
 
 His forehead wrinkled as he looked down at his daughter 
 and his mouth twitched. " What's all this? " he asked, sit- 
 ting down. " May I have some tea? " 
 
 " Of course." Rita reached toward the teapot, and then 
 smiled. " I'll let Mother fix it she knows what you take." 
 
 Lilias looked at Rita apprehensively as she poured out 
 the tea and handed it to her husband, nodded at his thanks. 
 
 " Now that I'm growing to be a big girl, and don't need 
 a father's guiding hand, I've decided that you've been a very 
 bad father," Rita said lightly. " Very bad father and very 
 bad husband."
 
 240 PROLOGUE 
 
 Webster's flush answered Lilias's and Rita grinned. She 
 was like a boy, her mother thought helplessly. 
 
 " So I think you ought to begin practising being a family 
 man now," went on Rita calmly. " Some day I'm going to 
 be bringing home grandchildren, and then you'll have to be 
 good." 
 
 Her father's head was tipped a trifle to one side as he 
 looked at her. " Would you mind telling me what you're 
 talking about, Rita? " 
 
 " I wouldn't tell you for the world, Father," she answered 
 impertinently. " But I'm glad you show some signs of 
 curiosity about something. Why don't you ask Mother? 
 I've got to run along for the five mail." 
 
 She got up and ran, hatless, down the path. " What in 
 the devil what's she talking about, Lilias? " Webster More- 
 land asked, as Rita disappeared into the trees at the foot of 
 the yard. " What started her? " 
 
 Lilias looked up at her husband in amusement, very lovely 
 with her flushed cheeks and her smiling eyes. " Why, she 
 asked me whether I loved you, and I said that I did," she 
 answered demurely. 
 
 II 
 
 As the summer went by, Rita and Lilias grew closer 
 than they had ever been. Once they had broken the reserve 
 that' lay between them, it was easy for them to become 
 friends, because they had none of the barriers that rela- 
 tionship usually builds up. They had never been parent 
 and child; ever since Rita had been a little girl they had 
 been merely two women living under the same roof, women
 
 PROLOGUE 241 
 
 with a certain amount of conventional affection, the one 
 jealous, and the other disapproving. 
 
 " Do .you like Lloyd Evans, Mother? " Rita asked. 
 
 " I like him," Lilias said. " He's very much of a baby, 
 I should imagine. A sentimental baby. I've never known 
 him well I think he was always a little afraid of me. 
 That's why he doesn't fall in love with Fran, of course 
 he's afraid of her." 
 
 " But " Rita looked at her mother suddenly, wide- 
 eyed. " Lilias Moreland, do you think that Fran Wood- 
 ward is in love with Lloyd? " 
 
 Lilias laughed. " Of course she is. She's tremendously 
 fond of him, too. That's why she was never really jealous 
 of you she's the kind of woman who wants the man she 
 loves to have what he wants." 
 
 " But " Rita hesitated again. " I don't believe Fran 
 was jealous of me," she said thoughtfully. " I think 
 Mother, Lloyd wanted me to marry him." 
 
 " He wasn't in love with you, though." 
 
 Rita looked out at the lake thoughtfully. " No I don't 
 believe he was," she said. " He thought he was, and I 
 Good Lord, Mother, I was blind! It never entered my head 
 that Fran" 
 
 She wrote to Fran that afternoon: 
 
 " I'm sorry I've been so childish and silly. Now that I'm 
 away from you all and New York, I can see what a little 
 idiot I was. And you saved me from being even more 
 silly. I'm I guess grateful's the word, Fran. Because 
 Lloyd is a darling, and I'm awfully fond of him. But we 
 don't care about each other, of course. It was my fault
 
 242 PROLOGUE 
 
 I can see that now. I was lonely lonely for Donald, I 
 think. At least for my idea of Donald. It might have 
 been anyone. I'm not going to write to Lloyd, but if you 
 like you might show him this letter. I want him to be 
 friends, too I think we can be awfully good friends now. 
 And oh, Fran dear, I'm so sorry I was such a little brute to 
 you. You do forgive me, don't you? " 
 
 In two days, Fran's answer reached the Larchborough 
 post-office. 
 
 RITA You OLD DEAR: 
 
 " I didn't believe you'd stay angry you're not that sort, 
 you know. I'm glad you wrote. Because I was feeling 
 pretty blue and dissatisfied with things, and your letter 
 cheered me up like a cocktail after a long, long thirst. I 
 knew we couldn't stop being friends after all the years of 
 friendship we've had. And Lloyd has got over his mad 
 that's why this is only a note. We're going out to dinner, 
 and I've got to dress. If we go to the Park Avenue, I'll 
 think of you, old dear. Best love and take care of your- 
 self. It's going to be great to have you back in New York 
 again. 
 
 Lovingly, 
 
 FRAN. 
 
 Rita smiled as she finished the letter. Her mother was 
 right and she was glad. She turned to her other mail; a 
 long letter from Peg about the baby, and the new house they 
 had bought outside New York, and a joint letter from Lucy
 
 PROLOGUE 243 
 
 and Martha, decorated with Lucy's scrawling drawings in 
 the margin. 
 "Oh, it's nice to have friends! " said Rita. 
 
 Ill 
 
 David Ashley followed an unexpected telegram to the 
 Mor eland home. 
 
 " I've just come from New York," he said, as he threw 
 down his bags and shook hands with them all. " I've been 
 out in the country with Peg and Jim Norris. But I was 
 called suddenly to New York I know I ought to lead up 
 to this with more suspense, but I'm bursting. I've just been 
 offered the editorship of Lisbon's Magazine." 
 
 "David! " Rita shook his hands excitedly. 
 
 " I'm awfully glad," Lilias said. 
 
 " Fine work, Ashley," Webster Moreland approved. "It's 
 the sort of thing you've always wanted, isn't it? " 
 
 " And it's come to me at forty-five but of course the 
 thing is that it's come." He was smiling radiantly as they 
 all sat down, eager to hear about it. " I'm going to have 
 fairly free rein, I think," he went on. " The magazine is in 
 an abominable condition they've had money enough to 
 make it go, but they've had rotten stuff." 
 
 " Oh, what fun! " Rita said. 
 
 Ashley looked at her humorously. " Peg's been reading 
 me your letters," he said. " That's why I came down here. 
 You've got over your incurable boredom at last, haven't 
 you? " 
 
 Rita laughed. " Guess I have," she admitted. " But"
 
 244 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Well, to be brutal," he answered her question, " if 
 you're going to be any sort of a reasonable human being, 
 instead of a sniffling little flapper " He paused, but Rita 
 grinned back at him " Why then, I'd like to talk business 
 with you." 
 
 " Talk bus David Ashley, what do you mean? " 
 
 " I'm getting the proper suspense this time," he said to 
 Webster Moreland. " Merely that I need a young person 
 male or female who is full of youthful enthusiasm 
 instead of youthful ennui, to work with me. There's going 
 to be a lot to do, and it's going to be damned interesting. 
 And I tried to get Peg Norris Peg isn't exactly what I 
 want; she's a little too one-sided. Hasn't got the human- 
 interest angle we'll need a little intense. But she's 
 wrapped up in her infant and wouldn't consider it. So she 
 suggested you." 
 
 " Me? " Rita repeated. 
 
 "That's what I said," he answered, "Rita? Two 
 years ago I wouldn't have hesitated. Then I lost faith in 
 you a little. But Peg boosted you to the skies, and gave 
 me as I said before your letters. So if you're in the 
 state-of-soul you were in two years ago, and have added 
 wisdom " 
 
 "Oh, David! " Rita looked at him wistfully; then her 
 eyes began to dance. " The first thing we'll do is fire the 
 make-up man unless the office boy has been doing the 
 make-up in his off hours. And then " 
 
 " You're hired," Ashley said, smiling. " In other words, 
 Rita my dear, you win." 
 
 " I think it will be good for Rita to work with you,"
 
 PROLOGUE 245 
 
 Webster Moreland said. " You're very decent to want 
 her." 
 
 " I think it will be very good for David to have Rita 
 working with him," Lilias said stoutly, and David looked 
 from Rita to her mother in sudden wonder. 
 
 Rita saw his look, and laughed. " That's a good mother 
 for you, David," she said. " It's just this summer that I've 
 discovered what a peach of a mother I have." 
 
 Her eyes, looking steadily into his, told him more; 
 explained to him that Rita and her mother had at last be- 
 come friends. 
 
 " Lilias is right," he said. " It will be good for me to 
 have Rita about. She makes me feel young, and I'm going 
 to count on her now to keep up my own enthusiasm if it 
 wanes." 
 
 " When do we start? " Rita asked abruptly. 
 
 " I'm going to start work Monday I just imposed on 
 your hospitality for the week-end. But you'll want the 
 rest of your vacation, and " 
 
 " Oh, no, I won't," Rita denied. " I'll start on Monday, 
 too." 
 
 " Perhaps Mr. Ashley " her father began formally. 
 
 " If you can, it will be a great help," David answered for 
 himself. " But isn't Monday rather short notice? " 
 
 Rita looked at her mother questioningly. 
 
 " We can get her ready," Lilias said. " She needs clothes, 
 but she can take my suit I got it early. And Let's leave 
 these men to talk, Rita, and go upstairs and look over 
 things." 
 
 Rita smiled gratefully at Ashley as she passed him.
 
 246 PROLOGUE 
 
 IV 
 
 Webster Moreland agreed in mild surprise, when Lilias 
 announced that she, too, was going to New York to open 
 the house. 
 
 " After all, it's nearly September," she said, " and I want 
 to see that Rita is properly taken care of. You can stay 
 down here for a while longer, if you like." 
 
 " I'd just as soon go with you," he answered. " There 
 are some people I'd like to see in New York about some 
 stuff I'm doing." 
 
 " What stuff, Web? " his wife asked. " The house for 
 Mrs. Ewing? " 
 
 Webster looked at her blankly. " What do you know 
 about that? " he asked. 
 
 " I was just looking over your drawings the other day," 
 she answered. " You see, Rita told me that you'd been com- 
 plaining because your things were disarranged every time 
 Mary cleaned your room. So I've been cleaning it myself. 
 I just happened to see the plans, and they looked so 
 lovely" 
 
 " You? " he asked. 
 
 Lilias Moreland smiled rather like a small boy who has 
 been caught kissing his baby sister. " Well? " she said, 
 laughing. 
 
 " But " He looked into her laughing face gravely. 
 " It just surprised me. By the way, I wonder whether you 
 can find time to look over those plans with me today? I 
 like a woman's point of view on things." 
 
 His wife grinned again. " Whenever you're ready," she
 
 PROLOGUE 247 
 
 said, and left him wondering why she laughed, as she 
 turned to meet Rita. " We're all going to New York 
 together," she told her. " Web wants to get in town any- 
 way. Of course we can't go on Sunday with you and David, 
 but just as soon as we can get the house in order and the 
 things packed " 
 
 " That will be nice," said Rita. " I've rather dreaded 
 being there alone, even though I expect to be awfully busy." 
 
 She wondered idly, as she threw the last things into her 
 trunk, and opened her bureau drawers for the twentieth 
 time, that she was so happy. But the contentment of Larch- 
 borough had come without wondering, and she intended to 
 accept it. She had been afraid for the winter to come, 
 afraid to go back to another year of New York that would 
 be in any way like the others. But now the remaining 
 months of Nineteen-seventeen and the beginning of Nine- 
 teen-eighteen seemed to hold only wonderful things for 
 her. 
 
 She smiled at the bundle of Donald's letters on her bu- 
 reau with the rest of the things she had saved to put in last 
 of all. 
 
 They were nice letters, although they said very little. 
 Donald was religiously avoiding both the war and them- 
 selves, so his letters were bits of nonsense and stories 
 about the other men in his division, and sometimes with 
 increasing frequency of the things he was going to do, of 
 the pies he was going to eat, when he returned. They were 
 not at all the letters of a lover; Donald was dear not to 
 want her to worry, not to remind her that he cared for her, 
 when the anxiety was so great.
 
 248 PROLOGUE 
 
 It never occurred to her that perhaps Donald cared for 
 her no more than she cared for him. 
 
 She smiled sadly at the bundle. She would not know 
 Donald until he came back if he came back. Just as her 
 boredom and dissatisfaction of the year before were dim in 
 her mind, so was her picture of Donald, of Donald as he 
 really was. He had become to her during the summer an 
 ideal, an ideal of youth and the beginnings of things. 
 Now she could write to him only gay, cheerful letters of 
 what she was doing, and wait. She wondered whether they 
 would be married when he came back; life with Donald 
 meant peace and quiet and protection. Never, since she had 
 known him, had he stirred her to the uncertainty, the hys- 
 teria, that a single day of New York could produce. Always 
 he was something calm, something quieting. 
 
 After all, she could only wait and see. New York was 
 ahead of her now; New York and work with David Ashley. 
 She felt hardened and strong physically, after her two 
 months in Larchborough. She looked out the window at 
 the lake, happy in the feeling that she was ready for any- 
 thing. 
 
 V 
 
 David Ashley thanked his god for a woman's home-mak- 
 ing instinct, as he looked about the offices of Lisbon's 
 Magazine. With the gray washed walls and the hideous oak 
 furniture, it had looked like the home of a gone-to-seed 
 magazine that it was. He had no money to buy attractive 
 rugs and prints, and any efforts at decoration, he felt, would 
 have been futile. But Rita had attacked the rooms as
 
 PROLOGUE 249 
 
 though they were a stage setting. She had found old prints 
 of photographs and sketches that had appeared in past 
 numbers of the magazine, and had taken them from the 
 files to tack upon the walls; in a dingy closet piled with 
 bundles of cuts and original drawings, smeared with rubber 
 cement and scrawled with the blue penciled marks of the 
 former make-up man, she had discovered cartoons and 
 paintings that blended with the smoke-stained walls and 
 gave the place an air of romance and interest. 
 
 Her own corner was, as her office at Jim Norris's and 
 with the Blake Advertising Company had been, a little 
 feminine. Prints and photographs spattered the wall above 
 her desk, like the pictures that surround the mirror in a 
 woman's bedroom, and the blue-green bowl of flowers was 
 curiously out of place and strangely pleasant. All the color 
 in the office came from Rita's desk; the small boxes of 
 Chinese lacquer, one scarlet and one green, in which she 
 kept her stamps, the absurd, flower-like contraption that 
 framed the mouthpiece of her telephone and that twisted 
 about and unfolded to give up its secret of telephone num- 
 bers. 
 
 David Ashley found her unusually useful. Her judgment 
 on fiction and articles was never final, but her scrawled 
 comments delighted the other readers and himself. There 
 was always a freshness in her interest; the informality of 
 her editorial criticisms, the lurching exclamation points 
 that followed her " Awful! Eyewash! ! " on some articles, 
 and the excitement of her angular writing when she liked 
 a manuscript, cut into the monotony of the work. 
 
 Her advertising experience proved invaluable in the writ-
 
 250 PROLOGUE 
 
 ing of captions; at first the two picture pages were given 
 her tentatively, but within a month they were hers the 
 ideas, the buying of the photographs, the make-up, and 
 the captions. Although Rita had not gone back to the 
 crowd that eddied about Martha Webb's studio with the 
 same unquestioning acceptance of their doctrines that she 
 had had when she first knew them, she went there often and 
 sometimes her captions had to be toned down and deleted 
 for the benefit of those whom Rita called pityingly " the 
 poor public ". She was developing radical ideas, and when 
 Lisbon's Magazine appeared with a page of pictures of 
 Russian revolutionists, of posters and banners, Rita's en- 
 thusiastic captions had been subjected to severe treatment 
 by David Ashley's blue pencil. 
 
 " But, David, don't you believe in the Russian revolu- 
 tion? " Rita asked him. " Don't you believe the people 
 who have come back people like Bessie Beatty and Will- 
 iams rather than the washed out newspaper stories we 
 get? " 
 
 Ashley laughed. " That isn't the question, Rita," he 
 said. " The dear public has to be fed gently you ought 
 to thank your god that I'm not making you write more 
 conservative stuff." 
 
 " I wouldn't do it,' ; Rita said. But she knew that she 
 would do almost anything for David; working with him 
 was a joy, and she was happier than she had ever been in 
 her life. 
 
 Her mother had plunged into Red Cross work with an 
 enthusiasm that surprised both Webster and Rita. Rita 
 had laughed tenderly at Lilias's pleasure when she was
 
 PROLOGUE 251 
 
 asked to pose in a tableau. She was extremely lovely, with 
 her veil of soft chiffon and her pure dress, and her face was 
 wistful and sympathetic. Rita felt years older than her 
 mother as she looked at the photographs; old and in- 
 tensely tender toward her. Her mother and father were 
 growing middle-aged ; Lilias had softened and changed. 
 
 " You know I wish we had a son," she said to her hus- 
 band one night at dinner. She had been telling him of 
 letters from soldiers that had come to the Red Cross head- 
 quarters, of the mothers of soldiers she had talked with. 
 They were all three moved and quiet, and Webster More- 
 land put out his hand and touched his wife's arm gently. 
 Rita smiled; it was beautiful to her to see her mother and 
 father coming together. It was too late, of course, for them 
 to forget the years that had gone by, but the war and Lilias's 
 new tenderness were creating a bond of sympathy between 
 them that made the Moreland home more peaceful than it 
 had ever been. 
 
 The year moved by quickly. The hysteria of New York 
 that in the other years seemed to her to have been centered 
 solely on Rita, was turned toward the war. There were 
 parades and fetes and benefits; there were shops and sales 
 and headquarters for hundreds of different funds. Rita 
 felt that her life was somehow in her own hands now; that 
 the dances and parties which had taken her from other things 
 before had lost their hold. 
 
 " I think you're finding your New York, Rita," David 
 Ashley said one Sunday afternoon, smiling from his corner 
 of the couch in Rita's living-room. " You remember I said 
 you would."
 
 252 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I think I am too, David. I'm getting more perspec- 
 tive. I'm not confining myself to any one group of people 
 or ideas there's still Peg and Martha and Lucy, with their 
 radicalism and their flock of pacifists, revolutionists, and 
 what-not. And there's Fran, with her filleids and her boys 
 in khaki and her benefits. And Mother and her Red Cross 
 friends. And Don't you think Donald is going to find 
 me changed, David? " 
 
 Ashley smiled. " I think you're going to find Donald 
 changed, too," he said. 
 
 Rita looked up quickly. " Meaning that I'm a little 
 egotist? " she asked. " I suppose I am, David. Have you 
 heard from Donald lately? " 
 
 " He writes quite often I try to get off a letter to him 
 every week to give him my angle of conditions here. They're 
 so far away, those boys." 
 
 " I haven't written him much about things here," Rita 
 said reflectively. " I haven't written much, anyway just 
 sort of empty letters. I can't quite get my angle of attack 
 towards Donald." Ashley laughed and Rita shook her 
 head. " I mean I don't quite know how to talk with him. 
 If he was a soldier I'd never met, like some of Fran's funny 
 ones, I'd be all right. But with Donald . . . " 
 
 " He's learning a lot," David said. " I think you're 
 going to find him more changed than he's going to find 
 you, Rita. But you'd do that, anyway. After all, all you 
 know about him is that he's a man young, nice looking, 
 attractive, who made love to you." 
 
 " Not very distinctive, is it? " Rita admitted. " No, I 
 don't know Donald. It's going to be interesting meeting
 
 PROLOGUE 253 
 
 him again." She looked into the fireplace absently, and 
 thought of the boy who had talked with her so many 
 times in this same room, before the same fire. " It's ter- 
 rible to think of him over there," she said, shuddering. 
 " We're so warm and comfortable here with our fire and our 
 toast and jam and tea. But Donald why, David, Donald 
 may be dying! " 
 
 Ashley was silent. " A lot of them are dying," he said 
 finally. " Lord, Rita " He got up and walked toward 
 the window impatiently, stood with his back toward Rita 
 for several minutes. " By the way, my kid sister is coming 
 on here in a few days," he said. 
 
 " Your sister? I'll be glad to see her, David. Will she 
 be with you? " 
 
 " I think so. She she's a nice kid, Rita. Only twenty- 
 one. Her husband was killed last month over there." 
 
 " Oh, David! " 
 
 He came back to the couch and sat down. " Nice boy, 
 too Kenneth Lane. They'd been married only two months 
 when he went. I want you to help me interest Marjorie 
 in things she's pretty broken up, of course. I don't know 
 what she's going to do. Oh God, Rita, this war! " 
 
 " When did you say your sister got here? " Rita asked 
 finally. 
 
 " Monday, I think." 
 
 " Bring her up for dinner, David." 
 
 He looked up quietly. " Thanks I'd like to. And now 
 I must be going along, Rita. There's some stuff I've got 
 to get in shape for tomorrow, and If you have any bril- 
 liant ideas for a couple of editorials "
 
 254 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I'll be thinking, David. Page run short again? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 They shook hands, and Rita sat before the fire, think- 
 ing. David's sister . . . And her husband was killed. She 
 had been married oniy two months when he left. And 
 Donald. . . . Donald was there now perhaps in action. 
 She closed her eyes. 
 
 " Oh, if he'll only come home! " she said. " I do want 
 him. Donald"
 
 CHAPTER THREE 
 
 I 
 
 March i2th, 1918. 
 DEAR DONALD: 
 
 It's weeks since I've written, but I'm going to try to write 
 a long letter now to make up for it. We have been terribly 
 busy on the mag I suppose David has written you about 
 that. He got into trouble over an editorial that the dear 
 owners thought was too radical I'm afraid it was partly 
 my fault, because I told him it was tame but that has 
 blown over and now we're settled back into the routine 
 at least as much of a routine as there ever is at the office. 
 That's the fun of our work there are new ideas and plans 
 every day, and writers correspondents cartoonists drift- 
 ing in from all ends of the earth with interesting dope. 
 
 You say I haven't written you a thing about New York, 
 and that you don't think it's fair of me not to share the 
 city I love with you. Well, it's a strange place these days, 
 Donald. Our little war hysteria must seem very silly to 
 you men over there. New York has been curious and 
 strange all through the war. 
 
 When war was declared, there was the expected wave of 
 excitement. America is so funny; it was just as though 
 we had discovered the war. We really felt quite patroniz- 
 ing towards the English and French and Italians until we 
 came in, and had a kind of tolerant interest in their little 
 
 255
 
 256 PROLOGUE 
 
 fight. But when we were a part of it, it was transformed 
 in the time it took to get the news from Washington trans- 
 lated into headlines and whistles and cannon reports into 
 a war as was a War. It was Our War. Our Brave Allies. 
 We were out to Save France and how furious it must make 
 the French! 
 
 New York took it at first rather like a musical comedy. 
 Much money was spent on beautiful new gleaming flags and 
 banners; there were fetes and parties and benefits with 
 much music and pomp and color. Of course they spent as 
 much money on decorations as they made. People began 
 sporting American flags in their buttonholes, and smart 
 shops showed red, white, and blue frocks and hats and even 
 underwear in their windows. 
 
 Even when the men began to go away parades of boys 
 in uniform with music and banners it wasn't quite real. 
 I think it first got me when I was riding down the Avenue 
 on a 'bus and I heard singing. We stopped to let a parade 
 of drafted men go by. I said parade it wasn't a parade. 
 They were going to Yaphank still in cits, of course. There 
 were about fifty of them. They couldn't march worth a 
 cent they weren't even trying. They had on every con- 
 ceivable product of a tailor's shop, some of them in loud 
 checks, some in really smart English suits and a lot of 
 them in flannel shirts and corduroy trousers. They carried 
 every conceivable sort of baggage, from good-looking leather 
 suitcases to straw valises, bright, patched carpet-bags and 
 newspaper bundles. And there were women women cry- 
 ing clinging to them, and a bunch of dirty, frightened 
 little children straggling on behind, holding their mothers'
 
 PROLOGUE 257 
 
 hands and linking off in chains like rowboats after a yacht. 
 I simply sat there and howled the tears began going down 
 my face and at first I tried to stop, then I got out my hand- 
 kerchief and gave in. When the 'bus started again, I looked 
 about, a little ashamed, and saw that everyone else was 
 crying. 
 
 The uniforms hadn't got me at all up till then but those 
 poor little civilians who didn't look any more like soldiers 
 than I do simply tore me up. 
 
 After that I was pretty weepy. I always saw those poor 
 little frightened defiant civilans some of them singing, 
 some of them just swallowing the lumps in their throats and 
 blinking whenever a parade of good-looking, upright, 
 uniformed men marched beautifully down the Ave- 
 nue. 
 
 And I think the rest of New York began to get it then, 
 too. 
 
 There have been the Commissions and the people who've 
 been in the war since the beginning have an entirely dif- 
 ferent look in their eyes from our men. New York saw 
 that, too. The different Commissions marked a change 
 the Belgian came last and there was more crying than cheer- 
 ing somehow, when they came down the Avenue. We're 
 beginning to forget about letting the eagle scream, and we're 
 thinking about the war. 
 
 And now wounded soldiers are coming back Lord, Don- 
 ald! It's the first we've seen of war; the gold service stars 
 that people in black are wearing, and those men without 
 legs and arms. And the casualty lists in the newspapers 
 whether you've got anyone over there or not, you can't
 
 258 PROLOGUE 
 
 help reading every name on the list. And when you think 
 of those names as individual men with folks 
 
 I don't know why you want to know all this. It isn't 
 particularly cheerful. Perhaps that's why I haven't writ- 
 ten I thought you were pretty well fed-up on war. But I 
 suppose it has a fascination. Like talking about operations 
 when you're going to have one. 
 
 David Ashley's sister, Marjorie Lane, is here now. Her 
 husband was killed in action two months ago and David 
 brought her on to New York to try to get her interested in 
 things. I'm sending you a picture of her and me that David 
 took when we went up to Central Park last week it's lovely 
 of Marjorie, I think. But nowhere near as lovely as she is. 
 
 Donald, she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen 
 in my life! Magazine covers simply aren't in it. Her hair 
 is like honey with champagne in it, and her eyes are so blue 
 that they positively hurt. She has a way of tying a piece of 
 black lace about her head when she goes out in the eve- 
 ning she says the light blinds her, but I know it's simply 
 mercy on her part, so that those blue eyes won't smite every- 
 one dead that they turn on. She's quite like David and 
 you know what that means coming from me. I worship 
 the ground David Ashley walks on you've no idea how 
 wonderful working with him is. 
 
 Marjorie has simply come into our midst and become the 
 adored one of us all. Everyone is mad about her. She and 
 Fran have struck up a curious friendship by the way, did 
 I write you that Lloyd Evans surprised us all by up and 
 enlisting a couple of months ago? And at this late date! 
 He was in the draft, of course, but for one reason or another
 
 PROLOGUE 259 
 
 he hadn't been called. Marjorie is awfully good for Fran, 
 I think. The war has subdued Fran a great deal; she's 
 given up her place at the Hotel des Artistes, and with it, 
 she seems to have given up all the artificiality of her life. 
 The war means a lot to her she has always known so many 
 men, been more or less dependent on them and they've 
 all gone. The ones that haven't enlisted she has no use for. 
 She's got a fairly good part in a play that's been running for 
 four months, and I think that next year she'll find a lead 
 on her hands. She's had awfully good reviews she seems 
 to have found her soul, somehow. I think you'll lik. her 
 when you get back. 
 
 We've all changed so. 
 
 Jim Norris has been trying to enlist ever since the war 
 started, but they won't have him. He's in Washington now, 
 doing some sort of war work at no salary at all, and Peg 
 has had to tear herself from the baby's side and go out and 
 do some articles. It's a good thing for her, I think she 
 was getting frightfully dependent on the kid. 
 
 There who says I can't write a long letter? But I've 
 honest got to get to work now. I brought some pictures 
 home to fuss with they're the most ungodly collection of 
 sizes and shapes, and I've got to arrange them in as decent 
 a make-up as I can for the page. As usual we're horrified 
 for fear the mag will be late. It never is, but how we 
 manage to skin by with it, God only knows. David works 
 like a Trojan all the time and I have been known to work 
 outside office hours myself. David has just put through a 
 raise for me he's an old dear. And I'm actually saving 
 money! It's so funny for me to find a bank-book mount-
 
 2 6o PROLOGUE 
 
 ing up. But people are getting out of the habit of spend- 
 ing oh, of course lots of people spend just as much as they 
 ever did, but it isn't so fashionable. 
 
 Father and Mother are well I haven't seen Mother for 
 months without a sock or a bandage in her hands. Father is 
 doing his old work with an eye out towards reconstruction 
 work there's a chance that he and Mother may go over 
 after the war. 
 
 After the war, Donald It must be going to end soon. 
 You don't know how glad we're all going to be to see you. 
 
 Love from everyone, and take care of yourself. 
 
 RITA. 
 
 April 6th, 1918. 
 DEAR DONALD: 
 
 Spring is here really. Oh, we have our days of bad 
 weather, but the air has an earthy smell, and the flower- 
 vendors are out on the Avenue with their arbutus and violets 
 and daffies and roses. Funny flowers that fade almost at 
 once, but I always buy them. They're like the flowers that 
 the cross-eyed man used to sell at Jack's maybe he still 
 does, but now that places close at twelve we never think of 
 going there and that Fran always insisted he used to steal 
 from graves. 
 
 We're hearing much about the Russian Revolution these 
 days Lord, how I'd like to go over there! I suppose you 
 share the feeling that is natural to people who are fighting 
 that Russia played a dirty trick on the Allies, but I can't 
 blame her. I hope the dear censor won't get mad with me 
 for these sentiments he ought to recognize my handwriting
 
 PROLOGUE 261 
 
 by now and realize that I'm a violently pro-ally young per- 
 son. Lloyd has been writing awfully amusing letters to 
 Fran they're going to be married when he gets back. He 
 always begins them, " Dear Mr. Censor, It may interest you 
 to know that I miss a certain young lady in New York ter- 
 ribly, and that " and so on. He's very gay in all the 
 letters Fran lets me see I think the war is doing him a lot 
 of good ; giving him a certain balance and putting him closer 
 in touch with other men than he has ever been in his life. 
 He ought to write well when he gets back. 
 
 I'm still awfully busy with the job and with all my 
 friends. Marjorie and I run about together after office- 
 hours, and Peg is really her old self again when Jim comes 
 up from Washington, as he does occasionally, we have 
 parties and are very gay. 
 
 I'm having a really female party next week Peg and 
 Martha and Lucy and Fran and Marjorie six of us. New 
 York, at least in our old crowd, is quite man-less. They're 
 not all in the army, but like Jim, many of them are work- 
 ing in Washington. 
 
 When you get back, Donald, we'll have a real party like 
 the one we had at New' Year's remember? Be a good boy 
 and remember to avoid all bullets and bombs. 
 
 As ever, 
 
 RITA. 
 II 
 
 April loth, 1918. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 As I have said many times before, it's great hearing from 
 you. What between you and David, I get all the good dope
 
 262 PROLOGUE 
 
 on what's what in New York and the States I'm extremely 
 popular with the New York men in the division; none of 
 them have such busy little letter- writers as you two. Grate- 
 ful's no word for it. I look forward to the mails like a love- 
 sick maiden, and I'm usually rewarded David hasn't missed 
 a Sunday since I got over. Pretty good, what? 
 
 We've been rather busy lately a few trifling little affairs 
 with the dear enemy. I'm writing this on my knees, which 
 is why the writing is so shaky it ain't nerves. Although 
 the whole damned bunch of us are developing the habits 
 of Ben Bolt's little friend Alice I don't mean the marble 
 slabs, I mean the weeping-with-delight and trembling-with- 
 fear stuff. Well be glad to be relieved. 
 
 As usual, there's a rumor afloat that the war won't last 
 more than five years longer I don't know. I suppose you 
 in New York know more about that than we do. 
 
 Here's hoping it's over soon, and we'll all be together. 
 We're going to have some great parties if I have anything 
 to do with it. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 " There! " Rita said, as Fran finished reading Donald's 
 letter and returned it to her. " How in the name of heaven 
 do you expect me to know whether I'm in love with him or 
 not? My Lord, Fran! I tell you I don't know anything 
 about him." 
 
 Fran laughed. " Of course my matchmaking instincts 
 are all roused I'm so very happy. I know, somehow, that 
 nothing will happen to Lloyd it simply couldn't, Rita. I
 
 PROLOGUE 263 
 
 don't know that I believe in God, but I know that there's 
 something that won't let Lloyd be taken from me 
 now." 
 
 " He'll come back," Rita said. " How's the rummage sale 
 getting on? " 
 
 Fran's eyes had grown soft and Rita was afraid that she 
 was going to cry; Rita half envied her unhappiness, because 
 she had her love with it. 
 
 " That's what I came over for," Fran said. " I wondered 
 if you could come over and help us tomorrow afternoon 
 can you get away? " 
 
 " Tuesday. Oh, I guess so," Rita answered. " When do 
 you want me? " 
 
 " About two o'clock. Who's coming? " 
 
 They turned and smiled at the girl who stood at the 
 top of the stairs. She was in white and her golden hair 
 and brown skin gleamed as she stood in the dark doorway, 
 with the light flooding behind her. 
 
 " All alone here in the firelight? " she asked. " David's 
 downstairs with your father, Rita he's coming up after 
 a time. Hello, Fran." 
 
 " Hello, dear." 
 
 Marjorie Lane threw her drooping white hat on the table 
 and came over to the couch beside them. " It's glorious 
 out tonight all warm and starry. And I'm happy. Rita, 
 what do you suppose has happened? " 
 
 " What? " 
 
 " Sold a story." 
 
 " Marjorie! " 
 
 She nodded her head up and down several times, and her
 
 264 PROLOGUE 
 
 eyes were round. " Honest. Two hundred and fifty dol- 
 lars! " 
 
 " Marjorief " 
 
 " I know isn't it gorgeous? And so David and I went 
 out to dinner and spent just as much of it as we could on 
 food and drink. Champagne, Rita! And we want to drag 
 you two out which is why I prefaced my remarks with 
 the fact that it's a glorious night." She laughed, and Rita 
 and Fran laughed with her. 
 
 " Of course we'll go," said Fran. " I'm pretty untidy 
 I've been at that blamed rummage sale all afternoon and 
 I came up here for dinner with Rita without changing, 
 but" 
 
 " I'm glad you're untidy," Marjorie said. " I hope you 
 are terribly untidy I can't see in this light. Because I'm 
 terribly jealous of you, Fran, and I insist on being the loveli- 
 est lady present tonight. Rita, have you on an unbecoming 
 dress? " 
 
 " Frightfully," Rita assured her. " I look worn and 
 dragged, my dear. But when you're in white, you needn't 
 be jealous of anyone, you know." 
 
 " Well, isn't this great news? " David asked, joining 
 them. " Wasn't she a horrid little thing not to send her 
 story to us, Rita? " 
 
 " But I wanted to have one in another magazine first, 
 David," Marjorie explained, and he pinched her cheek and 
 laughed at her earnestness. 
 
 " You're coming out with us? " 
 
 "Yes we'll run down and get ready," said Rita. She 
 was glad for Marjorie Lane, but she was conscious of a slight
 
 PROLOGUE 265 
 
 twinge of jealousy. Marjorie was so very pretty. And now 
 a story. She wondered what Donald would think of Mar- 
 jorie. 
 
 Ill 
 
 Rita pasted the proofs of her two picture pages in the 
 dummy of Lisbon's Magazine and then turned the pages 
 idly. It looked like a good number ; the cover was fair, and 
 there was interesting material following it. Marjorie Lane's 
 article was well done and Rita had worked for a long time 
 with Hughes, the make-up man, over the photographs and 
 the heading. Marjorie would like it. 
 
 " Going home tonight? " David asked her as he crossed 
 to the washbowl at the further end of the room and rolled 
 up his sleeves. 
 
 Rita glanced at her wrist-watch half-past five. " As a 
 matter of fact, I'm not," she said. " Mother and Father 
 have a dinner on, and Mother asked if I'd mind going out. 
 What are you and Marjorie doing? " 
 
 " Marjorie has an engagement, too. We seem to be 
 deserted, Rita. Will you dine with me? " 
 
 " I'd love to. And I want to talk with you about " 
 
 " Xo shop-talk," David said. " Not a chance." 
 
 Rita smiled. " We always do, don't we? " she said. " We 
 haven't had a really nice talk about anything but the mag 
 for most a year. Let's go to Gaston's it's cheap, and 
 rather nice." 
 
 They walked up the Avenue together, turned into a side 
 street, and walked past the bar of the dingy little restau-
 
 266 PROLOGUE 
 
 rant. Within the dining-room there was the clatter of dishes; 
 the strident voices of the peasant waitresses, " Trois 
 soupesl" calling down into the kitchen; the babble of 
 French voices. At a long table, three French sailors, in 
 stiffly starched middy-blouses, with their red-topped hats 
 hanging neatly behind them on pegs, were chattering and 
 gesticulating. The waitress brought the huge tureen of 
 soup, colorless, dirty looking liquid with great pieces of 
 bread floating about, that was delicious in proportion to 
 its lack of beauty. 
 
 "Beautiful soup! " said Rita. " So-up of the evening 
 bee-you-ti-ful so-ou-ou-oup! " 
 
 David smiled. 
 
 " I brought Fran here once and she almost died/' she 
 said. " But I like it don't you? " 
 
 " Very much. I think this is the first time I've ever had 
 dinner with you alone, Rita." 
 
 " I guess it is. Let's make a night of it and take a 'bus 
 ride afterwards." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 They were glad to get out of the hot room and its odors 
 of cooking, lucky to find seats on the top of a Riverside 
 *bus. They sat quietly, smiling contentedly at the warm 
 evening and the stars. The T>us lumbered along Seventy- 
 second Street and turned into the drive. The lights of the 
 river ships slid back and forth over the surface of the water ; 
 on the Jersey side of the Hudson, lights gleamed steadily 
 and mistily, climbing the cliffs. 
 
 Rita's hand slipped down contentedly and grasped David's. 
 " It's so lovely," she whispered. The drowsy breeze swept
 
 PROLOGUE 267 
 
 back over the 'bus top ; hats were taken off and heads leaned 
 on masculine shoulders. 
 
 " Let's get out and walk," he said abruptly. They rang 
 the bell and crossed to the path along the river. The street 
 lamps were dim and people walked past, hand in hand, talk- 
 ing softly, or for the most part not talking at all. They sat 
 down on a bench and looked out through the trees at the 
 still water. David's hand found Rita's now, and they sat 
 silently, breathing the peace of the evening. 
 
 " Have you heard from Donald lately? " David asked. 
 
 " A little letter. He writes fairly often, but he never 
 says very much. Why, David? " 
 
 In the dim light she could see his smile. 
 
 " You're almost twenty, aren't you, Rita? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " And you're happy? " 
 
 Rita threw back her head and looked up at the stars. 
 " Yes I'm happy," she said. She looked at him suddenly. 
 " Are you? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " I'm growing up," Rita said. " I still don't know 
 exactly what I want, David. I suppose it's marriage, isn't 
 it?" 
 
 " Is it? " 
 
 " I think so. I like my work I like my life now. It's 
 complete in a way, but it's incomplete. You see I haven't 
 any great ambition I haven't any special talent. There's 
 something needed to round off things. You've got it now 
 in Lisbon's an instrument for saying the things that you 
 feel should be said."
 
 268 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " There isn't so much that I want to say." She frowned. 
 " Nor so much that I want to do. I don't know, 
 David. . ." 
 
 " Children? " 
 
 '* I've never thought about them. Somehow I can't think 
 of them in connection with me. Abstractly, they're nice. 
 Peg's is a darling. But for me I don't know, David." 
 
 "I'd like children," he said quietly. 
 
 Rita turned towards him gently. "Why haven't you 
 ever married, David? Wouldn't you be happier? " 
 
 " I guess I've never cared enough for anyone," he said 
 slowly. " I've always been so busy, and I never met her 
 while I was young. I'm forty-five now." 
 
 " But you're not old." She looked at him again thought- 
 fully. " Sometimes it seems strange to me that we never fell 
 in love," she said. " Not that you never fell in love with 
 me; there's no reason why you should. But that I never 
 loved you that way. Because you're everything I like. I 
 love to be with you. I'm happier with you than with any- 
 one. And yet you're always just my friend." 
 
 He was silent. 
 
 " And I don't usually have men friends, somehow," she 
 went on. " It's hard for me not to think of love I suppose 
 it's hard because I've never had love and I want it. I think 
 I've always loved you too much, been too interested in what 
 you had to teach me, to fall in love with you." 
 
 " I guess that's it," he said quietly. 
 
 Rita turned quickly and looked at him. " Why, David! " 
 she said suddenly.
 
 PROLOGUE 269 
 
 " What, dear? " 
 
 Her hands dropped to her sides and she looked at him 
 in amazement. " Why, David! " she repeated, awed and 
 almost frightened at the thought that swept over her, that 
 she could not shake off. He met her gaze squarely, and 
 then his eyes dropped. He smiled. 
 
 " You never guessed? " he asked. 
 
 " But " As she looked at him, she felt the tears rise 
 to her eyes ; her throat contracted, and she put her hand up 
 to it. 
 
 " Rita dear! " he said gently. " It doesn't matter. I 
 knew that you didn't care for me, and I think I've been glad. 
 You see I'm old enough to be your father, child. It's 
 been absurd my falling in love with you. You've made me 
 very happy by giving me all your affection and trust. You 
 don't know how happy you've made me. Why, Rita, just 
 think, you might not have liked me, even." 
 
 " I've been so stupid! " Rita said. 
 
 " Foolish child, you've been nothing of the kind. And 
 don't begin now." 
 
 " I won't." Rita sat helplessly; words would not come, 
 and she wanted more than anything to talk. " But why " 
 she began finally. 
 
 He laughed. " I think I'm glad you know," he said. " I 
 know that my Rita won't let it make any difference she's 
 too honest and too kind. And " 
 
 " Kind? " Rita faltered. 
 
 " Yes. And I want you to be very happy. I don't know 
 who it will be Donald or someone else but it's coming 
 to you."
 
 270 PROLOGUE 
 
 She sat up suddenly. " Oh, but I know now," she said 
 excitedly. " It never could be Donald. I've been unkind 
 unfair. I guess I guess I didn't know what loving someone 
 was like. I never thought of giving Donald anything. I 
 just thought of what he could give me. I don't believe 
 I want to give Donald anything. I why, David! " 
 
 She did not understand the look of happiness that settled 
 over his face as she turned to him. She did not know that in 
 the moment that she had taken away the last of his hope, 
 she had given him the assurance he wanted. He felt as 
 though the girl he had dined with had been miraculously 
 transformed into a woman in a single instant. 
 
 " Why that's why Marjorie is happy," she said. 
 
 He smiled again. " What, Rita? " 
 
 " Because she loved him and gave to him and I couldn't 
 understand why she didn't hate him for going and getting 
 killed like that and spoiling her happiness. I thought I 
 would. It seemed so unfair. He was dead, but she " 
 Rita's head was whirling. It seemed as though something 
 had fallen into her mind that cleared and swept away things 
 before it ; it was like dropping a spoonful of cold water into 
 muddy coffee. 
 
 " We'd better be going back," David Ashley said. He 
 leaned over and kissed her. " Come along, dear." 
 
 She slipped her hand into his, a small, hot hand, like a 
 child's. " All right, David," she said. 
 
 All the way back on the 'bus, she was unaware that he 
 watched her changing, bewildered face, and smiled softly 
 to himself.
 
 PROLOGUE 271 
 
 IV 
 
 Rita smiled at Lilias, sitting at the breakfast table. 
 Neither she nor her father were yet accustomed to seeing 
 her in a trim dress, with her hair neatly coiled, instead of 
 in a soft negligee. Rita turned to her grapefruit and her 
 letters. 
 
 May i8th, 1918. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 It's a long time since I've written you, but at least I've 
 got something exciting to say now. I'm going to be mar- 
 ried in June! I don't know whether you ever met him 
 Bert Proctor. The Proctors live in the big house near 
 ours the one with the iron deer you always loved. They're 
 an awfully good family, and terribly rich. 
 
 But I really love Bert. He was gassed and wounded, 
 and he's got his discharge from the army. We were almost 
 engaged when he went over, and letters and all that com- 
 pleted it. 
 
 I want you to be a bridesmaid Marian Bailey from 
 school is going to be one, and two other girls you don't know. 
 I hope you can come it's going to be awfully nice. I'm 
 going to have a pretty wedding at home, with roses and 
 honey-suckle all over the house. The sixth of June, Rita 
 darling. Do write me that you'll come. 
 
 My best regards to all your family Mother sends love 
 also. 
 
 JANET CROSBY.
 
 272 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Remember Janet Crosby, Mother? " Rita asked. " At 
 school with Fran and me? She's going to be married and 
 wants me to be a bridesmaid." 
 
 " She's the girl you visited one summer? " 
 
 " Yes where I saw Donald for the first time after I'd 
 left Aunt Helen's. I think I'll go it will be nice to see 
 them all again. And Marian Bailey, the fat girl who was 
 such fun." Rita's eyes shone with excitement. 
 
 " When is it? " 
 
 " June sixth. We're really growing up, Mother I think 
 Janet's the first girl from the class to be married. Of course 
 Fran's engaged, but she was older than the rest of us." 
 
 Rita looked forward to her visit in Brookline, and to 
 Janet's wedding. It was a long time since she had known 
 any of the Crosbys' sort of people; people who went to 
 church on Sunday and made formal calls, who " kept up 
 appearances ". In June, in the Crosby home, it all came 
 back to her; the tired, discontented wife who had wanted 
 Janet to have all the things she had missed in life; the gay, 
 irresponsible husband, who thought of himself before either 
 his wife or daughter. The house was painfully patched and 
 artificial. 
 
 " Isn't it glorious that Janet's going to get out of it all? " 
 Mrs. Crosby said to Rita one evening, when Janet and 
 her fiance were out riding. " An automobile and servants, 
 a big house and social position! " Mrs. Crosby had accepted 
 Rita as another woman; she understood the difference be- 
 tween Rita and her daughter, and it was a relief to her to 
 have someone to talk with. Rita was "Bohemian"; she 
 was a suffragist and one of those independent women
 
 PROLOGUE 273 
 
 " bachelor girls ". One could talk to them about all sorts 
 of things, even though they were unmarried. Mrs. Crosby 
 took a certain delight in the calm way her daughter's friend 
 stopped her husband's flirtatious advances, waved him back 
 to the ranks of fathers and the middle-aged. 
 
 " It's awfully nice," Rita said. And it was nice for 
 Janet. 
 
 " He's a splendid boy," said Mrs. Crosby. " Of course 
 he hasn't much brains, but you don't need them with 
 money." 
 
 " No," Rita agreed, laughing. 
 
 " And Janet is just an ordinary girl. She isn't oh, like 
 you." 
 
 " No," Rita agreed again. " She's awfully pretty, Mrs. 
 Crosby." 
 
 "Isn't she, though! " The mother smiled contentedly. 
 
 " What are you going to do after she's married? " 
 
 " Me? I'm a middle-aged woman, Rita. I'll just sit 
 around and try to stall off old age as long as I can." She 
 smiled ruefully. 
 
 " There ought to be a national league for women to join 
 when their children leave them," Rita said. " There's so 
 much you women can do after the children are gone. You're 
 wiser and more fitted to do things you're more tolerant 
 and understanding." 
 
 " Suffragette! " Mrs. Crosby scoffed, but she was pleased. 
 " You'd better not let Bert hear you talk like that or he'll 
 not let Janet be friends with you. He's very narrow." 
 
 "Is he? " Rita liked Mrs. Crosby and was sorry for 
 her. " You and your husband ought to come on to New
 
 274 PROLOGUE 
 
 York after Janet's wedding," she said. " You ought to have 
 a honeymoon, too." 
 
 Mrs. Crosby laughed delightedly. " Would you show me 
 around Greenwich Village? " she asked. 
 
 " Oh, by all means." 
 
 " Is it very awful? " 
 
 "Terrible!" Rita assured her cheerfully. "Free Jove 
 and dirty restaurants and alley cats and artists' models 
 and" 
 
 Mrs. Crosby's eyes grew round. 
 
 " It's really most interesting," said Rita. 
 
 " And do the women smoke? " 
 
 " They do," Rita said sadly. She wanted to laugh; Janet 
 had evidently kept the news of her horrible habits from her 
 mother. 
 
 The day of the wedding drew nearer and finally came. 
 Because Rita did not share the excitement of the other 
 three bridesmaids and the hysteria of Mrs. Crosby, she sat 
 in Janet's room and helped adjust the white satin dress, the 
 soft veil. 
 
 " You look lovely, Janet." 
 
 Janet gazed at her reflection admiringly. She had grown 
 more slender in the years since school, but her fresh com- 
 plexion, her fair hair, were the same. She powdered her 
 nose critically. " The newspapers are sending up some 
 photographers," she said. " I'm going to have the pic- 
 tures taken out-of-doors the parlor looks all right, but I 
 think it's a little more swell against trees or the pergola, 
 don't you? " 
 
 " Much," agreed Rita. She looked lovely herself in a
 
 PROLOGUE 275 
 
 pale green chiffon dress the other bridesmaids had sighed 
 with relief when Rita chose the most trying of the four 
 colors. 
 
 " I look all right? " 
 
 " Beautiful, Janet." 
 
 Mrs. Crosby, with untidy hair, fluttered into the room. 
 Rita buttoned her dress for her, and adjusted the lace about 
 her neck, tightened her hair-net skilfully. 
 
 " I don't know what we'd do without you, Rita," Mrs. 
 Crosby said. " Oh, Janet, my dear " 
 
 Rita left them alone, although she knew there would be 
 no exchange of confidences between them; no word from 
 the confident young daughter to soothe her mother's anxie- 
 ties. 
 
 The wedding went off smoothly; the minister coughed 
 nervously and Janet's responses were low. Mrs. Crosby 
 wept appropriately, and Mr. Crosby stood stiffly, smiling 
 uncertainly. He was almost bursting with pride. Rita 
 flushed, when it was she who caught the bridal bouquet that 
 hurled down the stairs from Janet's hands. Mrs. Crosby 
 beamed excitedly. 
 
 " It was a lovely wedding," Rita said. 
 
 "Was the food all right? The Proctors are so swell and 
 we had an awfully expensive caterer." 
 
 " It was delicious," Rita soothed her. 
 
 " I was so mortified when the maid spilled that plate of 
 cakes." 
 
 " No one noticed." 
 
 Rita returned to New York, still amused at the wedding 
 and intensely grateful that she was the sort of person she
 
 276 PROLOGUE 
 
 was. A week in a respectable, conventional community was 
 a good thing for her, she decided. She felt that New York 
 could never discontent her again. She walked from the 
 station to a hotel and had a delicious breakfast alone, 
 smoked two cigarettes afterward. New York! The free- 
 dom of it; the simplicity. She went back to the office that 
 afternoon with new energy and interest.
 
 CHAPTER FOUR 
 
 IT was the morning of November seventh, 1918. Rita was 
 riding on the top of a Fifth Avenue 'bus to keep an early 
 luncheon engagement. The day was warm and pleasant, 
 with a crispness in the air that brought color to her cheeks. 
 Down on the sidewalk, a group of girls had come out of one 
 of the smart shops, and were standing looking up at the 
 sky. Rita glanced up and saw three airplanes, leaping and 
 turning, twisting and flashing their wings in the sunlight. 
 She smiled; they were having a good time up there, those 
 boys. All Fifth Avenue watched them until a sudden boom 
 of cannon, a sudden clamor of sirens gone mad, interrupted 
 them. People turned blank faces toward each other. 
 
 " What is it? " the woman who shared the seat with 
 Rita asked. 
 
 " I don't know." 
 
 They looked down at the street, wondering. Siren after 
 siren screamed out; suddenly an automobile rushed up 
 the Avenue, its cutout rivaling the whistles for clatter. 
 People poured from the stores; Rita and the woman looked 
 at each other, wondering. 
 
 " My Gawd! " The woman clutched Rita's arm. 
 "Look! " 
 
 277
 
 278 PROLOGUE 
 
 An automobile tore up the street; pasted across its wind- 
 shield was a newspaper. GERMANY SURRENDERS! 
 A second automobile. WAR ENDED! Again GER- 
 MANY SURRENDERS! 
 
 The woman beside Rita began to cry hysterically. In a 
 minute the Avenue was a confusion of automobiles, honking 
 their horns, opening their cutouts, and people. Every store 
 emptied itself on the street; lovely saleswomen from the 
 French shops, immaculate in black taffeta, with marceled 
 coiffures; dirty men and women from the sweat-shops on 
 the side streets; business men, shoppers, people of all sorts. 
 The whistles began anew, and a sound that was almost a 
 sob arose from the Avenue. 
 
 " I'm going to get off," said Rita. She hurried down 
 the steps of the 'bus, pushed her way into the crowd. A 
 French sailor standing on the curb was suddenly seized and 
 kissed vehemently by a middle-aged woman; people joined 
 hands and looked at each other silently. From the windows 
 of a tall office building, bits of paper fluttered down over the 
 crowd; receipted bills, newspapers, stationery, magazines, 
 pink and yellow and green requisition slips, everything 
 within reach. In five minutes the Avenue from Fifty-ninth 
 Street to Fourteenth was ankle-deep in torn paper; who had 
 thought of it, who started it, no one knew. It seemed to 
 begin everywhere at the same moment. Rita found her- 
 self covered with it; it was dripping from her hat, caught 
 on her suit, heaped about her feet. A woman caught her 
 hands suddenly and kissed her. " It's over! " she said. 
 She pushed on hysterically. People were crying and laugh- 
 ing; a bewildered American soldier was hoisted to the
 
 PROLOGUE 279 
 
 shoulders of two pink- faced business men, borne amid 
 cheers and shouting, up the Avenue. 
 
 A girl with a gold service star on her flag was laughing; 
 a woman with two blue stars on her shield wept. Rita 
 found her hand clasped again and again; men and women 
 smiled at her, cried with her. Above the rain of torn paper 
 the airplanes cavorted madly; they spiraled and twisted, 
 shot down almost to the buildings, swooped up again. Some- 
 where people had begun to sing. And still the paper deep- 
 ened on the street. 
 
 " Rita! " It was Marjorie Lane, almost hidden by the 
 paper shower she had passed under; Marjorie Lane, crying 
 and laughing, appearing from nowhere. They kissed each 
 other excitedly. " I just saw Fran. Everyone's here. 
 Lucy O'Day is on the corner of Thirty-second Street with 
 her arm around an Italian soldier. Let's find David." 
 
 They pushed through the crowd; people were moving 
 about uncertainly, standing still, sitting down, even. At 
 Madison Square they found David, walking dazedly towards 
 them. He put an arm about each of them and they stood 
 there, watching and listening, crying. 
 
 II 
 
 November eleventh, the true peace-day came and passed ; 
 life slipped back into its old routine. The waiting look in 
 people's eyes faded out as shipload after shipload of sol- 
 diers was landed. 
 
 One day in December when Rita opened the door of 
 her house, returning from the office, she was swept into a 
 pair of arms and kissed.
 
 280 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Donald! It isn't it Donald ! " Together they went 
 into the living-room and sank into chairs, looking at each 
 other. 
 
 " Just landed," Donald explained, stuttering in his excite- 
 ment. " C-came right up here. No one at home. Maid 
 let me in. My God! " 
 
 " Donald! " 
 
 They sat, facing each other, their hands clasped between 
 them. 
 
 " Donald! " 
 
 "Rita! " 
 
 "You're home! " 
 
 " Home." 
 
 They laughed excitedly. " Gosh, I don't believe it. 
 Home! " He got up and walked about the room impa- 
 tiently. " Back in New York. The dear old native land. 
 Home. Gee! " 
 
 " Does your mother know? " 
 
 "Just telegraphed her. I'm leaving for Boston tonight. 
 God! Mother and Dad. The kids. Rita, I can't believe 
 it." He seized her and lifted her high in the air, whirled 
 about with her in his arms. " Give me something to eat, 
 will you? I've got to get the train in half an hour taxi's 
 coming. I was afraid I'd miss you. I'm starved." 
 
 They went together into the kitchen and made sand- 
 wiches, ate them hungrily. The doorbell rang; the taxi 
 was outside. 
 
 " I hate to go, Rita. I'll be back soon as soon as I 
 can. I'll try to bring the folks on here. Gosh! Good- 
 bye, Rita." He kissed her again, and she stood, clinging
 
 PROLOGUE 281 
 
 to the door, as the taxi turned and hurried up the street. 
 The two weeks before she saw Donald again were a blur; 
 life was like a moving picture that is reeled too quickly. 
 Then came his letter. 
 
 January 6th, 1919. 
 DEAR RITA: 
 
 Can you find me a place to stay in New York? David 
 can't put me up just any old room will do. I'm coming 
 back to get a job and start work and see you all. Leaving 
 Wednesday night I'll phone you at the office when I get 
 in. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 DONALD. 
 
 She and David found the room together. 
 
 " We must have a party for him all the old crowd," said 
 Fran. " Have it in your place, Rita that room is the 
 divinest thing. Just think, we're all together again, Lloyd 
 and Donald, all of us! Jim can probably get up from Wash- 
 ington." 
 
 Rita agreed unenthusiastically. She wanted Donald all 
 to herself for a time. But when he arrived, he approved the 
 idea noisily. 
 
 " And I want to meet the beautiful Marjorie," he said. 
 
 " She's a dear girl," said Rita. 
 
 Donald laughed. " A dear girl! " he mimicked her. " I 
 thought you liked her." 
 
 " I do," said Rita. 
 
 But at the party when she stood quietly, watching Don- 
 ald and Marjorie dance, she wondered whether she did
 
 282 PROLOGUE 
 
 wholly. It was silly to think that she might be jealous 
 of Donald; she did not care enough for that. But she 
 felt that he was not as glad to see her as he might have 
 been. He came over to her after his dance. 
 
 " I like this room," he said. " We've had good times here, 
 Rita? " 
 
 Rita looked up at him, smiling. " Yes," she said. She 
 waited, watching him. 
 
 " Shall we dance? Fran's putting on a waltz." 
 
 " All right." 
 
 Afterwards, they sat down together by the window, and 
 Donald brought her punch and sandwiches. " I'm not going 
 back to the paper, Rita," he said. " That was just play for 
 me, really. I'm twenty-three, and I want to get started with 
 something definite." 
 
 " What? " 
 
 " I don't know yet. I've got several strings out. Dad 
 has given me letters and your father and David are help- 
 ing. I want a regular job, you know." 
 
 They lapsed into silence. Rita wondered what had 
 become of the long conversations she had been looking 
 forward to ; why it was so difficult for them to talk. She was 
 grateful to her mother for interrupting them and bearing 
 Donald away. He stopped and spoke to Marjorie Lane 
 and they stood together for a moment, laughing. Rita 
 wondered why he was so much more at ease with Marjorie; 
 why he could chatter and laugh and be the old Donald 
 again. She could see that he was no longer in love with 
 her; almost he seemed to have forgotten that they had ever 
 cared. And yet perhaps that was it; perhaps it was that
 
 PROLOGUE 283 
 
 that stood between them. He might think that she still 
 cared! Her chin tilted indignantly at the thought; she 
 would explain that to him in no uncertain words at the first 
 possible opportunity. Later in the evening, she found her 
 chance. She had gone downstairs into the living-room to 
 find a book of sketches that Lucy O'Day wanted to see, and 
 she met Donald coming down as she turned back. 
 
 " I was looking for you, Rita. Your mother wants you 
 to bring up her scarf from her room the yellow one." 
 
 " All right. Sit down a minute, Donald I want to talk 
 to you." 
 
 He waited obediently. 
 
 " I just wanted to say," she said, speaking quickly, " that 
 I hoped we weren't going to let things we felt thought we 
 felt before you went, stand in the way of our friendship. 
 Because I like you, Donald. Of course we were very 
 young and hysterical then, but we've both changed a lot, 
 and we realize that we didn't know. So we're friends? " 
 She held out her hand. 
 
 " Of course." He took her hand and smiled. " I'm 
 glad you did speak of it I wasn't sure, you know. I 
 mean " 
 
 " I understand," said Rita quietly. 
 
 " You're awfully decent." 
 
 " Rot." They walked up the stairs together and Rita 
 closed the door of her mother's room behind her and flung 
 herself on the bed. He didn't care he didn't care a bit. 
 And he had thought she cared. It was humiliating; she 
 hated Donald for not caring. She got up abruptly, found 
 the scarf and went upstairs.
 
 284 PROLOGUE 
 
 David Ashley was standing alone, and she went over to 
 him, smiling. " I'm going to make you dance tonight, 
 David," she said. 
 
 " Nonsense I hate it." 
 
 " You won't hate dancing with me. I'm a very good 
 dancer." 
 
 " But I'm abominable. Run and have a nice time and 
 don't be a hostess." 
 
 " But I have my nicest time with you," she said. 
 
 He looked down at her gravely. 
 
 " Such a modest person," said Rita, reaching up and pat- 
 ting his cheek. " Thinks a lady's being a hostess just be- 
 cause she wants to play with him." 
 
 David laughed. " Are you trying to flirt with me, Rita? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " Would it bore you so, David? " Across the room Don- 
 ald was asking Marjorie to dance with him again. The 
 music started. " Please, David." 
 
 He- shook his head. " You are in love with Donald, 
 aren't you, Rita? " he said, and turned away. She stared 
 after him, her cheeks flaming. Then Jim Norris claimed 
 her for a dance. 
 
 Rita was glad when the party started to break up and she 
 made no effort to hold it together. 
 
 " You're tired, Rita," her mother said. 
 
 " Dead," she agreed. " Thank God, it's Saturday." 
 
 " Did you ever see anyone look so lovely as Marjorie? " 
 
 Rita looked up at Lilias with sudden suspicion, but she 
 realized that for once her mother was tactless. There was 
 no thrust in her remark.
 
 PROLOGUE 285 
 
 " She's beautiful," Rita agreed. " I must say good-night 
 to her." She crossed the room calmly, and stood talking for 
 a minute. After the last guest had gone, she terrified her 
 mother by smiling at her for a moment, and then fainting. 
 
 m 
 
 " Well, I've been back a month and a half," Donald said 
 to Rita. They were sitting together at luncheon in a 
 business restaurant near her office. " And I've got a job 
 today that I think is big enough to interest me for the rest 
 of my life." 
 
 " Really, Donald? " She liked him when he was excited; 
 his brown skin seemed to grow darker and his eyes danced 
 like the eyes of the boy she had known at Aunt Helen's. 
 
 " You remember your father gave me a letter to Innis of 
 the Star and Moon Exporting Company? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " He's been playing with the idea of taking me on for 
 some time. All I have in my favor by way of training is 
 my boyish enthusiasm, but it seems to be what he wants. 
 It's a big chance, Rita. Innis is dissatisfied dissatisfied 
 with foreign trade in general and his own in particular. 
 And he wants a man I don't know whether my status is 
 office-boy or assistant president sometimes when he talks, 
 I think it's one, and sometimes the other. But he wants 
 someone who'll work with him on the big end of the busi- 
 ness worry about things from a mahogany desk, and take 
 trips to the docks and the storehouses and the ports them- 
 selves."
 
 286 PROLOGUE 
 
 "Oh, Donald! " 
 
 " It's like a fairy-tale, Rita. It means travel respon- 
 sibility a chance to use my own little head." He laughed. 
 " Innis was telling me today about the Japan trade. He says 
 our trade with the Orient particularly is falling off. We 
 don't study our customers we don't know them. The 
 average American salesman seems to be a bonehead. For 
 instance, we're sending stuff to Japan in huge crates and 
 boxes. They can be lifted only by hooks and American 
 machinery. The Japs like their stuff packed in baskets, in 
 boxes with handles. We don't realize that they use human 
 labor in nine cases out of ten where we use machinery and 
 animals." 
 
 " And you'd be looking out for things like that? " she 
 asked. " You'd be studying people and their ways write 
 some stuff for us on it, Donald? " 
 
 He laughed. " You're a credit to David," he said. " All 
 my literary attempts will go to you, Rita. But I'm not 
 expecting to do much writing I'm going to work like the 
 devil." 
 
 "I'm so glad for you! " Rita said. "You're content, 
 then? " 
 
 " I'm content. It seems enough to fill the void that's 
 been aching away like an empty stomach ever since I got 
 back here. I want action." 
 
 Rita looked at him thoughtfully. " I think that's about 
 the way I felt before I got started with David," she said. 
 " I was at ends with myself. But now " 
 
 " Now you're satisfied? " 
 
 "Almost," she said. "And now I've got to dash back 
 to the office."
 
 PROLOGUE 287 
 
 She did not see him again for several days; then, abruptly, 
 he telephoned and asked her to have dinner with him. They 
 talked about his work and hers, and about the things they 
 wanted to do with their lives some of the things. They 
 avoided marriage as though it were something that obviously 
 had no connection with either of them. Rita found her- 
 self wanting to see more and more of Donald, to hear every 
 new development of his work. And as she realized it, she 
 avoided him, asked him to dinner less often, found less time 
 to take from her office-work. 
 
 She did not know at least she had not actually admitted 
 to herself that she was in love with Donald, until Fran 
 and Lloyd announced their first party in their new apart- 
 ment. Marjorie Lane had bought a new dress and she 
 came into the office to chat with Rita and David, and to 
 tell them about it. After she had gone, Rita sat quietly, 
 considering. It was going to be a gay party, and Marjorie 
 was going to look exceptionally beautiful. 
 
 She went deliberately to the cashier and gave him a check 
 for more money than she had drawn at once from her 
 account since it was started. She left the office and the piles 
 of work on her desk, and took a taxi up the Avenue. For 
 the first time in her life she was really fastidious; she looked 
 at dresses in three different shops, with none of her usual 
 concern for the saleswoman, before she found the one that 
 she wanted. 
 
 As she stood before the long mirror in the dressing-room 
 while two sewing girls pinned and basted, she realized that 
 it was the sort of dress her mother might have bought. It 
 was quite unlike anything she had ever worn. The founda- 
 tion was copper-colored cloth that gleamed like metal; the
 
 288 PROLOGUE 
 
 shades of chiffon that were caught irregularly over it could 
 have been chosen only by a Frenchman who was as much 
 an artist as he was a business man. The flowers at the girdle 
 were more beautiful than any real flowers she had ever seen. 
 And there was an air to it that made her feel confident of 
 accomplishing anything. 
 
 She paid for it calmly, and had just enough money left 
 to buy slippers and to pay her waiting taxi. She walked 
 home, half ashamed that she had spent so much money. 
 Somehow she managed to tell no one about the dress ; when 
 she came downstairs into the living-room on the night of the 
 dance, her mother and father who were reading, looked up 
 and gasped. 
 
 " Rita Moreland! " Lilias said. 
 
 Rita smiled. She was beautiful, and she knew it; she 
 had to be beautiful. Even her father finally found words. 
 When Donald came for her, she was wrapped in a dark 
 cape, but the glory of the dress shone in her face. 
 
 "You're lovely, Rita! " he said. 
 
 She smiled again. She was little stirred by the admira- 
 tion she caused at Fran's, but Donald's eyes, following her 
 about the room, made her heart leap. She had avoided 
 David Ashley all the evening, but finally he drew her aside 
 and into one of the small rooms that had been deserted 
 when the dancing began. 
 
 " I suppose you know that you're the most beautiful 
 thing any of us have ever seen," he said. 
 
 " It's funny what just a dress can do, isn't it? " 
 
 He smiled at her. " You do love Donald, then? " 
 
 This time Rita felt no resentment against him. " More
 
 PROLOGUE 289 
 
 than anything in the world," she said simply. " I didn't 
 know at first. And then when I began to realize it, I was 
 afraid. I don't know whether he cares or not I'm going 
 to make him care if he doesn't." 
 
 " Why do you know now? " David asked. 
 
 " I don't know," she said. " But I'm sure. Donald is 
 an awfully average person, David. He doesn't do any of 
 the things I admire I'd like him to write or paint. He 
 can't and he never will. But I don't care. I want him 
 with me always. I want to live with him in a house of 
 our own and hear him talk about his work and share things 
 with him. I'd like I'd like to give up something for 
 him, David." 
 
 He patted her hand gently. "I'm not afraid for you, 
 Rita," he said. " You know you're a very average person 
 yourself, really. You don't do any of the things you admire, 
 either. I think you'd be discontented if you were married 
 to a person who did. You're young now, and you're con- 
 tent with being on the edge of things. You won't be always. 
 But with Donald you'll be content anywhere if you love 
 him." 
 
 " And I do." She got up quietly. " Let's go back to 
 the party." 
 
 When she and Donald, at the close of a dance, found 
 themselves at the end of the long room, away from the 
 others, Rita sat down willingly and waited while Donald 
 brought her something to drink. 
 
 " I'd like to talk to you tonight, Rita," he said slowly. 
 " Can't we get out of this and go somewhere to a restau- 
 rant? "
 
 290 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Yes," Rita said. She got her cloak and they walked 
 silently along the dark street to a cafe. 
 
 " Bar's closed," the waiter greeted them as they sat down. 
 
 "We want coffee," Donald said. They waited until he 
 had brought it and gone away. " Rita, you said that we 
 didn't know before I went away that we were just to be 
 
 friends. But I can't. I don't want you to be my friend. 
 j 
 
 " Did you just find that out? " Rita asked him. 
 
 He looked at her steadily. " I want you to marry me, 
 Rita." 
 
 " Sure? " 
 
 " Of course. I when I got back, I didn't know. The 
 thought of coming back and marrying you before I'd had 
 any real freedom was ghastly. And then when I got back, 
 you were different. And I thought you cared for Ashley." 
 
 " Not like that," said Rita. 
 
 " I didn't know, you see. And then oh, it sounds rotten, 
 but you were so settled and secure. And everything was so 
 uncertain for me. I think I envied you. I didn't like it 
 because you didn't need me." 
 
 " Oh, but I do, Donald! " 
 
 " Really? " He reached across the table and took her 
 hands. 
 
 " Really and truly, Donald." 
 
 They sat smiling at each other for a moment. 
 
 " I've had a hard time in a way since you've been gone," 
 Rita said. " I didn't know what I wanted. And I was 
 lonely. I almost almost loved someone, Donald." 
 
 His hand on hers tightened.
 
 PROLOGUE 291 
 
 " I mean I wasn't going to marry him, Donald. But 
 I was going to to live with him." 
 
 " I'm not a Father Confessor," he said. 
 
 " I know, but I want to tell you. It was Fran who 
 stopped me. I was furious with her. And sometimes I feel 
 that it's just as bad as though I had, Donald because I 
 really wanted to. If I had " 
 
 " I'm glad you didn't but it wouldn't have made any 
 difference," he said. " Oh, I suppose I've changed, too. 
 But I don't know why I should expect more of you than 
 I can give." 
 
 " It's different with a man, somehow at least people 
 think so." 
 
 " I don't know that I do. But we don't have to bother 
 about that, do we? " 
 
 " Of course not. And then I began to think of you, 
 Donald, as something that was safe a kind of balance- 
 wheel for me. You don't know how how annoyed I was 
 when you came back and weren't in love with me! " 
 
 They laughed together. " I was a little annoyed, too," 
 he admitted. " I wasn't sure myself, but it seemed so 
 unflattering of you." 
 
 " Oh, Donald! " 
 
 " But now it's all right, Rita? " 
 
 " Oh, yes." 
 
 " And you do care? " 
 
 " Awfully." She wondered that it was all so simple, so 
 matter-of-fact, now. " Some day I'll show you the receipted 
 bill for this dress, Donald," she promised, laughing sud- 
 denly.
 
 292 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Then it was on purpose tonight? " 
 
 "You knew, Donald." She smiled reproachfully. 
 
 " Yes, I knew." They were silent again, a happy, laugh- 
 ing silence. " When will you marry me? " 
 
 " Any time." 
 
 " Tomorrow? " 
 
 She laughed. " Next week," she said. 
 
 " And we don't have to have a regular wedding all that 
 stuff? " 
 
 " Lord, no! " 
 
 They paid the check and went out together, walked back 
 to the Moreland house. 
 
 " Good-night, dearest." 
 
 " Good-night." Rita lifted her face to Donald's. She 
 ran up the stairs quickly, took out her key. 
 
 " Oh, Rita! " He bounded up after her. " My dear I 
 don't believe I've told you! I've kept it from you." 
 
 " What? " 
 
 " Why I love you." 
 
 Rita laughed as his arms went round her again. " I don't 
 believe we did say it, Donald," she said. "How funny! 
 Oh, Donald, I love you. I love you! I love you! " She 
 opened the door and went inside. 
 
 rv 
 
 " I'm glad, Rita," Lilias said, when her daughter told her. 
 " Of course marriage is a kind of grab-bag, and yet I'm not 
 so awfully afraid for you." 
 
 " I'm not afraid," Rita said.
 
 PROLOGUE 293 
 
 "If if it doesn't go, don't be a little fool as I was, 
 Rita." 
 
 Rita smiled. "I won't, Mother. I think we've got a 
 lot in our favor, anyway. I'm going to keep on with David 
 for a time. Donald's starting in and I don't want to be a 
 drag on him." 
 
 " But will Donald let you work, Rita? " 
 
 " I haven't told him yet, but I'm sure he knows that 
 I'm going to after all, what could I do all day with no 
 work? " 
 
 Lilias looked at her daughter helplessly. " But do men 
 like independent women? " she asked finally. 
 
 " Donald does." 
 
 Lilias met her daughter's eyes and laughed. " I suppose 
 that's it," she said. " It's Donald you've got to think of 
 not men. I wonder " 
 
 " What, dear? " 
 
 " Sometimes I think you could have given me good advice 
 if you'd been present when I married Web, Rita," she said, 
 smiling. 
 
 Rita patted her mother's hand. " Goose! " she said. 
 
 Lilias picked up her knitting, flame-colored wool instead 
 of the khaki that had grown in her hands for so many 
 months. " I suppose I ought to be giving you maternal 
 advice," she said at last, embarrassed. " You know you 
 make me feel so young, Rita. I guess I'll get you a charm- 
 ing negligee and some satin slippers and let it go at that. 
 What are you going to be married in? " 
 
 " I hadn't thought. A suit, of course." 
 
 " If you have a baby, I'll be a grandmother! " said Lilias.
 
 294 PROLOGUE 
 
 They laughed together. 
 
 " You know I don't think I'll mind," Lilias said sud- 
 denly. " How funny, Rita! " 
 
 " I shan't have one right away, anyway, dearest." 
 
 " A grandmother! " Lilias repeated. " And Web will be 
 a grandfather. He won't like that." She put aside her 
 knitting and stood up. " I think I'll go in and tell him, 
 Rita! " 
 
 " It's probably occurred to him, Mother." Rita watched 
 Lilias with amusement. 
 
 " How funny! " Lilias repeated. She leaned over sud- 
 denly and kissed her daughter. 
 
 Louisburg Square, 
 Boston, Massachusetts, 
 
 February i2th, 1919. 
 DEAREST RITA: 
 
 Your letter and Donald's came in the same mail, and 
 Dick and I laughed and cried over them. We loved the 
 way you insist that you roped Donald into this engagement 
 by means of a new dress, because Donald talked of little 
 else but you when he was last with us. Way back in the 
 winter you spent with us, my maternal instinct used to set 
 me wondering whether perhaps some day ! You know 
 at least you will know before very long, I hope how we 
 mothers are. And of course while Donald was overseas I 
 had the usual maternal brainstorms for fear he would 
 marry a French girl. He doesn't seem to have been near
 
 PROLOGUE 295 
 
 enough one to have had the chance, but just the same, I 
 used to wonder how she would ever fit into the family! 
 
 The children how they'd take me to task if they knew 
 I called them that! are delighted. 
 
 And because I cannot tell you in a letter how very glad 
 and happy I am, I want you to come out with Donald and 
 spend a week or so with us before you are married Donald 
 speaks of the marriage as apt to occur at any minute, but 
 waiting will do no harm, and I'd like to see you both. It 
 is difficult for me to get away from the house, or I'd come 
 to New York. 
 
 Ruthie, of course, is in the beau stage, and I have my 
 hands full with her. Peter is in Latin School here he 
 was so lonely at boarding-school that I had to bring him 
 back and he also is at the stage where billiards and bowl- 
 ing hold many fascinations for him. And even Dick, after 
 twenty-five years of marriage, rather needs me. 
 
 So won't you come? Don't bother to write telegraph. 
 We're ready for you whenever you arrive. 
 
 Love to you, my dear, and to your pretty mother. 
 
 Affectionately, 
 
 HELEN STARR WELLS. 
 
 Donald and Rita boarded the Boston train together one 
 morning. The tiresome trip proved delightful. 
 
 " It's really a final proof of the advisability of our mar- 
 riage, Donald," said Rita. " If I can love you as much at 
 the end of five long hours of riding in a stuffy train, as I 
 did at the beginning 1 " 
 
 " And you do? "
 
 2g6 PROLOGUE 
 
 " I do, my dear." She leaned back in her seat and 
 smiled at him. " I know such a lot about you," she said. 
 " You see living in the same house as we did, I know that 
 you're quite as dull as I am at breakfast, that you don't 
 take cold showers in the morning I'd never forgive you 
 that, my dear and that you like to sleep late on Sundays." 
 
 "And I know that you don't wear curl-papers or pink 
 wrappers and " 
 
 " What do you know about such things, anyway? " she 
 demanded, laughing. " You must have had an inferior lot 
 of women friends, Donald." 
 
 " I've read magazines," he answered. " Lord, Rita, it's 
 going to be fun to be at home with you." 
 
 " It is fun. Just think it's eight years since I've seen 
 your mother." 
 
 But the eight years seemed a short time when Rita 
 was folded in Helen Wells's arms and kissed heartily by 
 Dick Wells. They had grown older, but they seemed little 
 changed to Rita. Then the twins bounded into the room, 
 Peter, brown-haired and eyed, shy as ever, stocky, and in 
 no way like Donald; Ruthie, brunette, too, but strangely 
 like her older brother, for all her resemblance to her twin. 
 
 " Ruthie you young woman, you! " Rita exclaimed, 
 holding her off and looking at the coiled hair, the over- 
 powdered nose. 
 
 Ruthie giggled delightedly and adored her. Peter's 
 adoration was called forth as instantly when he came for- 
 ward, blushing, for the kiss he had nerved himself to receive, 
 and found instead a cool hand outstretched to grasp his 
 own. 
 
 For the second time in her life, the peacefulness of a
 
 PROLOGUE 297 
 
 happy family wrapped itself about Rita. She had felt it 
 unconsciously as a small girl, but now that she was a woman 
 she appreciated and envied it. Uncle Dick's kiss for his 
 wife, when he came home from work, was never the perfunc- 
 tory dab that shocked Rita in most married kisses; the 
 freedom and friendliness that the three children felt towards 
 their parents was so natural that it was incredible to her 
 that it was so rare. 
 
 " How did you do it, Aunt Helen? " Rita asked, when they 
 were sitting together in her chintz-curtained sewing-room. 
 " How did you manage to make such a home? " Her ges- 
 ture included the room they were in ; sunny and clean, invit- 
 ing. The walls were spattered with absurd framed paint- 
 ings that the three children had done in different years of 
 their lives; there were the gray mice and beautifully round 
 red apples of kindergarten days, the cherry blossoms and 
 maple leaves of primary school, the " sketches from life " 
 of grammar and high school grades. And in all the photo- 
 graphs the faces of the children, the occasional faces of 
 Helen and Dick Wells, smiled contentedly. 
 
 " It made itself, Rita," she said, smiling. " If you let 
 it, it always will." 
 
 " It doesn't usually," said Rita. " It doesn't seem as 
 though I've seen more than three happy marriages in my 
 life." 
 
 " Of course I'm no judge of that. I think that happy 
 marriages attract happy marriages. Most people that I 
 know are just as content as we have been. But it's a 
 woman's fault when a marriage fails a marriage that was 
 based on real love. I'm not saying that because you're 
 marrying my son, Rita."
 
 298 PROLOGUE 
 
 " Oh, I know that. And I suppose you're right that's 
 why I want you to tell me. The secret of your success, 
 you know, like magazine articles." 
 
 Aunt Helen laughed. " But I'm not a wizard," she 
 objected. " I can only tell you how to make a happy 
 marriage with Dick Wells as a husband. I imagine you 
 know Donald better than I do." 
 
 " I wonder," Rita said, looking again at the funny paint- 
 ings, at the photographs of the small boy. " Tell me about 
 Donald when he was little, Aunt Helen. Was he naughty? 
 Have you any other pictures of him? " 
 
 "Pictures? I have even curls! " Aunt Helen said. For 
 the entire morning they sat, looking at photographs, re- 
 reading old letters, turning the pages of scrapbooks. The 
 album for Nineteen-ten was especially fascinating; Rita 
 lingered over pictures of Donald and a strange, large-eyed 
 little girl, with long thin legs and arms. 
 
 " What a homely kid I was! " she said. 
 
 " You were a darling. Oh, Rita, you'll never know how 
 I loved having you. You were such a little, starved 
 child " She paused. 
 
 " I'd like you to see Mother now," Rita said quickly. 
 " She's changed a lot, Aunt Helen." 
 
 " I like your mother," said Helen Wells. " I've always 
 liked her. At school, she was my best friend. People used 
 to wonder that we loved each other so much we were so 
 very different. I think it was the difference that attracted 
 us; we each had so much that the other lacked." 
 
 Rita thought of Fran and nodded. " And you knew 
 Father? "
 
 PROLOGUE 299 
 
 ' Not so well. I never was so fond of him Dick always 
 liked him. He's a man's man, Rita." 
 
 " I know. That was the trouble, don't you think? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 Rita sat quietly while Helen told her about the first 
 years of her mother's marriage; she was amazed at the 
 sympathy and understanding that welled in her voice. It 
 was strange that " good " women could be so tolerant of 
 women who had done wrong in the world's eyes. 
 
 " I want to be like you, Aunt Helen," she said as they 
 went together into the dining-room in answer to the luncheon 
 bell. 
 
 Helen Wells smiled. "If you're like yourself, Rita, 
 like the girl you've always been, you'll be all I want in 
 Donald's wife," she said. 
 
 Uncle Dick and the twins were not at home for luncheon, 
 and she and Donald and his mother sat together at the 
 great table in the sunny dining-room, talking and laugh- 
 ing. Rita was glad that Donald looked like his mother; 
 she liked to watch them together, to see the same smile 
 curve their lips, the same lights appear in their blue-gray 
 eyes. 
 
 " Let's be married awfully soon, Donald," she said. 
 " Let's go back to New York tomorrow. I want to stay, 
 Aunt Helen, but I'm too envious. I want to get back and 
 find my apartment and begin building a home like this 
 for my husband." 
 
 Aunt Helen's smile was misty. "Well all go down to 
 the station with you in the morning," she said gently.
 
 CHAPTER FIVE 
 
 I 
 
 February 2316, 1919. 
 
 I THINK that this is the last time I'll be writing in my 
 diary. I'm not quite sure why I'm doing it now I think 
 it's a kind of swan song, before I forsake the little brown- 
 covered books that have helped me solve so many difficulties 
 for the man who is going to help me solve them for the 
 rest of my life. It's a long time since I've written in here 
 life has been too full. But I've just finished going over 
 my clothes, and making out a list of the remaining things 
 I need for my new place, and the desire to round things 
 off is still strong in me. I want to write The End in this 
 book. 
 
 We're going to be married on the second of March, a 
 Monday. That leaves me just a week to be Rita Moreland, 
 a week that must be very full since Bill Curtis has left 
 Lisbon's, and I shall have more than my share of work to do 
 there. Donald is busy, too; I am afraid that we shall see 
 very little of each other except in the hours we are working 
 and unpacking in the new apartment. When all my china 
 and my shiny pots and pans arrived last week, and Donald 
 drove the nails for them in the woodwork of the little 
 kitchen, I had a sudden wave of reaction. I wanted to 
 leave Lisbon's and play in my new house, do my own work, 
 be a regular housewife. If Donald had had any of the 
 
 300
 
 PROLOGUE 301 
 
 instincts of the old-fashioned male, they would have shown 
 then. But he laughed at me, and reminded me that I was 
 a modern young woman. And of course he is right; I 
 should be abominably discontented without real work. For 
 a time until Donald is well established with Innis, and 
 until we have some money saved I shall keep on with my 
 work. I want to have a year or two to play with him, a 
 year in which perhaps we will go to Japan or China while 
 Donald makes reports. Then I think I shall have a child. 
 
 The years stretching ahead of us are filled with endless 
 possibilities. All the things that I could not have alone, 
 that I do not want alone, are waiting for me now. I think 
 that marriage is less fair to a man; for me, it means free- 
 dom, all the things I desire. But for Donald there is a 
 certain amount of restraint, of responsibility. But he says 
 that he doesn't care. I shan't let him care; I shall make 
 life and marriage very beautiful for him. 
 
 I feel as though March Second mathematically made the 
 first break in my life. It means the end of the beginnings 
 of things. There have been so many beginnings; all the 
 years I suppose there were only three or four of them 
 when I was what Aunt Helen calls " neither hay nor grass ". 
 I was unhappy to the point of satisfaction. It was in those 
 years that I did most of my reading, most of my discover- 
 ing. Then came New York. 
 
 I'm going to like having children children of mine and 
 Donald's. I have found so many wonderful and interest- 
 ing and absorbing things in being alive. For a time I want 
 to share them only with Donald. But I know that as they 
 pile up, I shall want to share them still more. I suppose
 
 302 PROLOGUE 
 
 that is why people have children people who have them 
 intentionally. 
 
 And so Rita Moreland is going to disappear on March 
 Second, and Rita Moreland Wells and Donald Wells will 
 take her place a family. The world seems closer to me 
 than it has ever been; I want to be active in it, I want to 
 help prepare it for my children and for other people's chil- 
 dren. It's curious that even politics are more vital; that 
 the government we are going to live under has a new signi- 
 ficance. 
 
 I have bought new clothes for the new Rita, and I have 
 patched and mended old ones. And it's like that with ideas. 
 Everything that I shall take with me into our new apart- 
 ment is something that I want, something that I have 
 weighed carefully and found true and becoming. On every 
 anniversary of our marriage, I think I shall weed through 
 my things my clothes and my books and my ideas. March 
 Second is going to be my New Year's hereafter. And I 
 want to take only the good things from each year into the 
 next. 
 
 Oh, I am happy! It's good to be happy, good to be 
 alive. I wonder what Donald is doing and thinking at 
 home in his room, where he is packing his things, sorting 
 out letters, destroying papers. He must be sweeping out 
 his own ideas, making space for the new ones. And in a 
 week we shall start our housekeeping of ideas together. 
 Donald and I. And that's the end of my diary; it's no 
 longer the diary and me, Rita Moreland and herself it's 
 Rita and Donald. 
 
 It's us.
 
 PROLOGUE 303 
 
 II 
 
 " Well, it's your last chance to back out," Rita said, as 
 she and Donald stood together at the door of her house. 
 
 " I'm not scared." 
 
 " Tomorrow, my dear." 
 
 He took her in his arms silently. " Tomorrow, Rita." 
 
 They were married at the Municipal Building, with Lilias 
 and Webster Moreland as witnesses. The ceremony sur- 
 prised them both by its brevity; Rita smiled contentedly at 
 the simplicity and dignity of it, after Janet's wedding of the 
 year before. Donald had groaned at the suggestion of a 
 dinner, and they went alone to a small French restaurant 
 near their new apartment. It was one of those late winter 
 days that smell of spring; they mounted the stairs of their 
 apartment house silently, and Rita stood, smiling, while 
 Donald fumbled with the key, flung open the door. 
 
 Lilias must have come to the apartment while they were 
 at dinner, for the place was heavy with the fragrance of 
 flowers that had not been there in the afternoon. The 
 window-boxes that Rita had decided they could not afford 
 had appeared miraculously, and were blooming with cro- 
 cuses ; a squatty pot of yellow tulips shone between the brass 
 candlesticks on the hundred-legged table. Irregular bay- 
 berry candles were lighted about the room, and a bowl of 
 blue hyacinths was caught in a ray of moonlight in a dim 
 corner. They stood looking before them. 
 
 " It's all spring," Rita whispered finally. " Spring 
 flowers and new linens and the beginnings of things, Don-
 
 304 PROLOGUE 
 
 aid." She put her hand on his arm gently, and there were 
 tears hi her eyes. 
 
 " The beginnings of things, Rita," Donald repeated. He 
 bent over tenderly, and drew her close to him. 
 
 THE END
 
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