, with her hands placed in
the incredible way that is so dear to the photographer's heart, still
hung crooked over a colonial chest of drawers. Her blue and white bath
wrap was in its place over the back of a chair, with her slippers
beneath it.

She opened the door of the hospitable closet. There were all the
clothes and shoes and hats that she had left. She drew out a drawer in
the chest. Nothing had been disturbed.... It was uncanny. She seemed to
have been away for years. And yet, as she looked about and got the
familiar scent of the funny little lavender sachets made by Mrs. Nye,
she found it hard to believe that Marty and Gilbert Palgrave, the house
in New York, all the kaleidoscope of Crystal rooms and restaurants, all
the murmur of voices and music and traffic were not the elusive
memories of last night's dream. But for the longing for Marty that
amounted to an absorbing, ever-present homesickness, it was difficult
to accept the fact that she was not still the same early-to-bed,
early-to-rise country girl, kicking against the pricks, rebelling
against the humdrum daily routine, spoiling to try her wings.

"Dear old room," she whispered, suddenly stretching out her arms to it.
"My dear old room. I didn't think I'd miss you a little bit. But I
have. I didn't think I should be glad to get back to you. But I am.
What are you doing to me to make me feel a tiny pain in my heart?
You're crowding all the things I did here and all the things I thought
about like a thousand white pigeons round my head. All my impatient
sighs, and big ambitions, and silly young hopes and fears are coming to
meet me and make me want to laugh and cry. But it isn't the same me
that you see; it isn't. You haven't changed, dear old room, but I have.
I'm different. I'm older. I'm not a kid any more. I'm grown up. Oh, my
dear, dear old room, be kind to me, be gentle with me. I haven't played
the game since I went away or been honest. I've been thoughtless,
selfish and untamed. I've done all the wrong things. I've attracted all
the wrong people. I've sent Marty away, Marty--my knight--and I want
him back. I want to make up to him bigly, bigly for what I ought to
have done. Be kind to me, be kind to me."

And she closed her arms as if in an embrace and put her head down as
though on the warm breast of an old friend and the good tears ran down
her cheeks.

All the windows were open. The air was warm and scented. There was no
sound. The silent v