She threw her light wraps over the back of a chair, and, standing
before her dresser, took the multitude of pins out of her hair and
tumbled it, a cloudy black mass, about her shoulders. Occupying the
center of the dresser, in a leaning silver frame, stood a picture of
Jack Barrow. She stood looking at it a minute, smiling absently. It
was spring, and her landlady's daughter had set a bunch of wild flowers
in a jar beside the picture. Hazel picked out a daisy and plucked away
the petals one by one.
"He loves me--he loves me not--he loves me--" Her lips formed the
words inaudibly, as countless lips have formed them in love's history,
and the last petal fluttered away at "not."
She smiled.
"I wonder if that's an omen?" she murmured. "Pshaw! What a silly
idea! I'm going to bed. Good night, Johnny boy."
She kissed her finger-tips to him again across the rooftops all grimed
with a winter's soot, and within fifteen minutes Miss Weir was sound
asleep.
She gave the lie, for once, to the saying that a woman is never ready
at the appointed time by being on the steps a full ten minutes before
Jack Barrow appeared. They walked to the corner and caught a car, and
in the span of half an hour got off at Granville Park.
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