M. Monday morning, quite a different sort of a person. In
other words, she chucked the plain shirt waist and the plain skirt into
the discard, got into such a dress as a normal girl of twenty-two
delights to put on, and devoted a half hour or so to "doing" her hair.
Which naturally effected a more or less complete transformation, a
transformation that was subjective as well as purely objective. For
Miss Weir then became an entity at which few persons of either sex
failed to take a second glance.
Upon a certain Saturday night Miss Weir came home from an informal
little party escorted by a young man. They stopped at the front gate.
"I'll be here at ten sharp," said he. "And you get a good beauty sleep
to-night, Hazel. That confounded office! I hate to think of you
drudging away at it. I wish we were ready to--"
"Oh, bother the office!" she replied lightly. "I don't think of it out
of office hours. Anyway, I don't mind. It doesn't tire me. I _will_
be ready at ten _this_ time. Good night, dear."
"Good night, Hazie," he whispered. "Here's a kiss to dream on."
Miss Weir broke away from him laughingly, ran along the path, and up
the steps, kissed her finger-tips to the lingering figure by the gate,
and went in.
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