He turned irresolutely to the table upon which lay the scattered leaves of his old manuscripts. ’ Lucilla Froxfield laughed gaily. It was his tall stance and his pale skin that drew him out of the crowd. “Maternity,” she said, “has been our undoing. Each was draped in transparent silk, dancing, beckoning to me, teasing me. “You come into these sordid surroundings—you mustn’t mind my calling them sordid—and it makes them seem as though they didn’t matter. “Then I suppose when I have graduated I am to come home?” “It seems the natural course—” “And do nothing?” “There are plenty of things a girl can find to do at home. Niente. Lucy knocked again. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said.
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