One day she had thrown all the gifts into the lagoon, and visited the secret nook no more. She had heard of women journalists, women writers, and so forth; but she was not even admitted to the presence of the editors she demanded to see, and by no means sure that if she had been she could have done any work they might have given her. Still he looked hale and hearty, and the country life he led had imparted a ruddier glow to his cheek. She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. She was aware of people—her aunt, her father, her fellow-students, friends, and neighbors— moving about outside this glowing secret, very much as an actor is aware of the dim audience beyond the barrier of the footlights. ” “She didn’t say she’d met any one.
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