The Hermit and the Wild Woman and Other Stories

or, passed with a spring from the drawing-room to the na

recurring domestic tasks that compel haste without fostering elasticity; but some impetus of youth revived, communicated to her by her talk with Gu

Was she rea

oned house in Wentworth counted among its relics. The face reflected in this unflattering surface-for even the mirrors of Wentworth erred on the side of deprecia

desks, in large bare halls where a snowy winter light fell uncompromisingly on rows of "thoughtful women." Her mouth was thin, too, and a little strained

ingering pink threw a veil over her pallor, the hollows in her temples, the faint wrinkles of inexperience about her lips and eyes. How

r neck. Yes-that was better. It gave her the relief she needed. Relief-contrast-that was it! She had never had any, either in her appearance or in her setting. She was as flat as the pattern of the wall-paper-and so was her life. And all the pe

e one's hair look thicker and wavier than it really was? Between that and rouging the ethical line seemed almost impalpable, and the spectre of her rigid New England ancestry rose reprovingly before her. She was sure that none of her grandmothers had ever simulated a curl or encouraged a blush. A blush, indeed! What had any of them ever had to blush for in all their frozen lives? And what, in Heaven's name, had she? She sat down in the stiff mahogany rocking-chair beside her work-table and tried to collect herself. From childhood she had been taught to "collect herself"-but never before had her small sensations an

checked its swaying with a firm thrust of her fo

by an eminent Q. C. whom the Ransoms had known on one of their brief London visits, and with whom Ransom had since maintained professional relations. All this was in the natural order of things, as sanctioned by the social code of Wentworth. Every one was kind to Guy Dawnish-some rather importunately so, as Margaret Ransom had smiled to observe-but it was recognized as fitting that she should be kindest, since he was in a sens

s protected by her age, no doubt-her age and her p

ly, and the bolt's resistance

rga

ess fading, and unbolted th

? Why, you're not dres

ourse, the directer way through his wife's bedroom. She had never before been disturbed by this practice, which she accepted as inevitable, but had merely adapted her own habits to it, delaying her ha

ea in the library after you've gone," she answered absent

n. I suppose the speeches will begin at ni

hink not. Mrs. Sperry's ill, an

get hold of Dawnish? Wasn't he her

llery in Hamblin Hall, where the great public dinner of the evening was to take place-a banquet offered by the faculty of Wentworth to visitors of academic eminence-a

she murmured, bending

ot if you te

face him, lest he should suspect her of trying to avo

You know I speak for the bar." She was aware, in his voice, o

meant to go,

Maria now. Maria! Call up Mr. Dawnish-at Mrs. Creswell's, you know. Tell him Mrs. Ransom wants him to go with her

onless, while her husband added loudly: "And bring me some towe

way we do things over here-and I don't know that he's ever heard me speak in publi

-sighted unobservant glance concentr

hat, are you?" he asked,

lifting a conscious hand

ve you been shampooing it? You look like t

d his perpetual pince-nez, seemed to his wife a sudden embodiment of this traditional attribute. Not that she had ever fancied herself, poor soul, a "femme incomprise." She had, on the contrary, prided herself on being understood by her husband, almost as much as on her own complete comprehension of him. Wentworth laid a good deal of stress on "motives"; and Margaret Ransom and her husband had dwelt in a complete community of motive. It had been the proudest day of her life when, without consulting her, he had refused an offer of partnership in an eminent New York firm because he preferred the distinction of practising in Wentworth, of being known as the legal represe

references, its inflexible aversions and condemnations, its hard moral outline preserved intact against a whirling background of experiment, had been all the poetry and history of Margaret Ransom's life. Yes, what she had really esteemed in her husband was th

much consequence all thi