Mrs. Adams had remained in Alice's room, but her mood seemed to have changed, during her daughter's little more than momentary¹ absence.  
“What did he SAY?” she asked, quickly, and her tone was hopeful.
 
“'Say?'” Alice repeated, impatiently. “Why, nothing. I didn't let him. Really, mama, I think the best thing for you to do would be to just keep out of his room, because I don't believe you can go in there and not talk to him about it, and if you do talk we'll never get him to do the right thing. Never!”
 
The mother's response was a grieving silence; she turned from her daughter and walked to the door.
 
“Now, for goodness' sake!” Alice cried. “Don't go making tragedy out of my offering you a little practical advice!”
 
“I'm not,” Mrs. Adams gulped², halting. “I'm just—just going to dust the downstairs, Alice.” And with her face still averted³, she went out into the little hallway, closing the door behind her. A moment later she could be heard descending⁴ the stairs, the sound of her footsteps carrying somehow an effect of resignation.
 
Alice listened, sighed, and, breathing the words, “Oh, murder!” turned to cheerier matters. She put on a little apple-green turban with a dim gold band round it, and then, having shrouded⁵ the turban in a white veil, which she kept pushed up above her forehead, she got herself into a tan coat of soft cloth fashioned with rakish severity. After that, having studied herself gravely in a long glass, she took from one of the drawers of her dressing-table a black leather card-case cornered in silver filigree⁶, but found it empty.
 
She opened another drawer wherein were two white pasteboard boxes of cards, the one set showing simply “Miss Adams,” the other engraved⁷ in Gothic characters, “Miss Alys Tuttle Adams.” The latter belonged to Alice's “Alys” period—most girls go through it; and Alice must have felt that she had graduated, for, after frowning thoughtfully at the exhibit this morning, she took the box with its contents, and let the white shower fall from her fingers into the waste-basket beside her small desk. She replenished⁸ the card-case from the “Miss Adams” box; then, having found a pair of fresh white gloves, she tucked an ivory-topped Malacca walking-stick under her arm and set forth⁹.
 
She went down the stairs, buttoning her gloves and still wearing the frown with which she had put “Alys” finally out of her life. She descended¹⁰ slowly, and paused on the lowest step, looking about her with an expression that needed but a slight deepening to betoken¹¹ bitterness. Its connection with her dropping “Alys” forever was slight, however.
 
The small frame house, about fifteen years old, was already inclining to become a new Colonial relic¹². The Adamses had built it, moving into it from the “Queen Anne” house they had rented until they took this step in fashion. But fifteen years is a long time to stand still in the midland country, even for a house, and this one was lightly made, though the Adamses had not realized how flimsily until they had lived in it for some time. “Solid, compact, and convenient” were the instructions to the architect, and he had made it compact successfully. Alice, pausing at the foot of the stairway, was at the same time fairly in the “living-room,” for the only separation between the “living room” and the hall was a demarcation suggested to willing imaginations by a pair of wooden columns painted white. These columns, pine under the paint, were bruised¹³ and chipped at the base; one of them showed a crack that threatened to become a split; the “hard-wood” floor had become uneven¹⁴; and in a corner the walls apparently¹⁵ failed of solidity, where the wall-paper had declined to accompany some staggerings of the plaster beneath it.
 
The furniture was in great part an accumulation begun with the wedding gifts; though some of it was older, two large patent rocking-chairs and a footstool having belonged to Mrs. Adams's mother in the days of hard brown plush and veneer¹⁶. For decoration there were pictures and vases. Mrs. Adams had always been fond of vases, she said, and every year her husband's Christmas present to her was a vase of one sort or another—whatever the clerk showed him, marked at about twelve or fourteen dollars. The pictures were some of them etchings framed in gilt¹⁷: Rheims, Canterbury, schooners¹⁸ grouped against a wharf¹⁹; and Alice could remember how, in her childhood, her father sometimes pointed²⁰ out the watery²¹ reflections in this last as very fine. But it was a long time since he had shown interest in such things—“or in anything much,” as she thought.
 
Other pictures were two water-colours in baroque frames; one being the Amalfi monk²² on a pergola wall, while the second was a yard-wide display of iris²³ blossoms, painted by Alice herself at fourteen, as a birthday gift to her mother. Alice's glance paused upon it now with no great pride, but showed more approval of an enormous photograph of the Colosseum. This she thought of as “the only good thing in the room”; it possessed²⁴ and bestowed²⁵ distinction, she felt; and she did not regret having won her struggle to get it hung in its conspicuous²⁶ place of honour over the mantelpiece. Formerly²⁷ that place had been held for years by a steel-engraving, an accurate representation of the Suspension Bridge at Niagara Falls. It was almost as large as its successor, the “Colosseum,” and it had been presented to Mr. Adams by colleagues in his department at Lamb and Company's. Adams had shown some feeling when Alice began to urge its removal to obscurity in the “upstairs hall”; he even resisted for several days after she had the “Colosseum” charged to him, framed in oak, and sent to the house. She cheered him up, of course, when he gave way; and her heart never misgave²⁸ her that there might be a doubt which of the two pictures was the more dismaying.
 
Over the pictures, the vases, the old brown plush rocking-chairs and the stool, over the three gilt chairs, over the new chintz-covered easy chair and the gray velure sofa—over everything everywhere, was the familiar coating of smoke grime. It had worked into every fibre of the lace curtains, dingying them to an unpleasant gray; it lay on the window-sills and it dimmed the glass panes²⁹; it covered the walls, covered the ceiling, and was smeared³⁰ darker and thicker in all corners. Yet here was no fault of housewifery; the curse could not be lifted, as the ingrained smudges permanent on the once white woodwork proved. The grime was perpetually renewed; scrubbing only ground it in.
 
This particular ugliness was small part of Alice's discontent, for though the coating grew a little deeper each year she was used to it. Moreover, she knew that she was not likely to find anything better in a thousand miles, so long as she kept to cities, and that none of her friends, however opulent, had any advantage of her here. Indeed, throughout all the great soft-coal country, people who consider themselves comparatively poor may find this consolation³¹: cleanliness has been added to the virtues³² and beatitudes that money can not buy.
 
Alice brightened a little as she went forward to the front door, and she brightened more when the spring breeze met her there. Then all depression left her as she walked down the short brick path to the sidewalk, looked up and down the street, and saw how bravely the maple³³ shade-trees, in spite of the black powder they breathed, were flinging out their thousands of young green particles overhead.
 
She turned north, treading the new little shadows on the pavement briskly, and, having finished buttoning her gloves, swung down her Malacca stick from under her arm to let it tap a more leisurely³⁴ accompaniment to her quick, short step. She had to step quickly if she was to get anywhere; for the closeness of her skirt, in spite of its little length, permitted no natural stride; but she was pleased to be impeded³⁵, these brevities forming part of her show of fashion.
 
Other pedestrians³⁶ found them not without charm, though approval may have been lacking here and there, and at the first crossing Alice suffered what she might have accounted an actual injury, had she allowed herself to be so sensitive. An elderly woman in fussy³⁷ black silk stood there, waiting for a streetcar; she was all of a globular modelling, with a face patterned like a frost-bitten peach; and that the approaching gracefulness³⁸ was uncongenial she naively³⁹ made too evident. Her round, wan⁴⁰ eyes seemed roused to bitter life as they rose from the curved high heels of the buckled⁴¹ slippers⁴² to the tight little skirt, and thence with startled ferocity to the Malacca cane⁴³, which plainly appeared to her as a decoration not more astounding⁴⁴ than it was insulting.
 
Perceiving that the girl was bowing to her, the globular lady hurriedly made shift to alter her injurious expression. “Good morning, Mrs. Dowling,” Alice said, gravely. Mrs. Dowling returned the salutation with a smile as convincingly benevolent⁴⁵ as the ghastly smile upon a Santa Claus face; and then, while Alice passed on, exploded toward her a single compacted breath through tightened⁴⁶ lips.
 
The sound was eloquently⁴⁷ audible, though Mrs. Dowling remained unaware⁴⁸ that in this or any manner whatever she had shed a light upon her thoughts; for it was her lifelong innocent conviction that other people saw her only as she wished to be seen, and heard from her only what she intended to be heard. At home it was always her husband who pulled down the shades of their bedroom window.
 
Alice looked serious for a few moments after the little encounter, then found some consolation in the behaviour of a gentleman of forty or so who was coming toward her. Like Mrs. Dowling, he had begun to show consciousness of Alice's approach while she was yet afar off; but his tokens were of a kind pleasanter to her. He was like Mrs. Dowling again, however, in his conception that Alice would not realize the significance of what he did. He passed his hand over his neck-scarf to see that it lay neatly⁴⁹ to his collar, smoothed a lapel of his coat, and adjusted his hat, seeming to be preoccupied⁵⁰ the while with problems that kept his eyes to the pavement; then, as he came within a few feet of her, he looked up, as in a surprised recognition almost dramatic, smiled winningly, lifted his hat decisively, and carried it to the full arm's length.
 
Alice's response was all he could have asked. The cane in her right hand stopped short in its swing, while her left hand moved in a pretty gesture as if an impulse carried it toward the heart; and she smiled, with her under lip caught suddenly between her teeth. Months ago she had seen an actress use this smile in a play, and it came perfectly⁵¹ to Alice now, without conscious direction, it had been so well acquired; but the pretty hand's little impulse toward the heart was an original bit all her own, on the spur of the moment.
 
The gentleman went on, passing from her forward vision as he replaced his hat. Of himself he was nothing to Alice, except for the gracious circumstance that he had shown strong consciousness of a pretty girl. He was middle-aged⁵², substantial, a family man, securely married; and Alice had with him one of those long acquaintances that never become emphasized by so much as five minutes of talk; yet for this inconsequent meeting she had enacted⁵³ a little part like a fragment in a pantomime of Spanish wooing.
 
It was not for him—not even to impress him, except as a messenger. Alice was herself almost unaware of her thought, which was one of the running thousands of her thoughts that took no deliberate form in words. Nevertheless, she had it, and it was the impulse of all her pretty bits of pantomime when she met other acquaintances who made their appreciation⁵⁴ visible, as this substantial gentleman did. In Alice's unworded thought, he was to be thus encouraged as in some measure a champion to speak well of her to the world; but more than this: he was to tell some magnificent unknown bachelor how wonderful, how mysterious, she was.
 
She hastened on gravely, a little stirred reciprocally with the supposed stirrings in the breast of that shadowy ducal mate, who must be somewhere “waiting,” or perhaps already seeking her; for she more often thought of herself as “waiting” while he sought her; and sometimes this view of things became so definite that it shaped into a murmur⁵⁵ on her lips. “Waiting. Just waiting.” And she might add, “For him!” Then, being twenty-two, she was apt to conclude the mystic interview by laughing at herself, though not without a continued wistfulness.
 
She came to a group of small coloured children playing waywardly in a puddle⁵⁶ at the mouth of a muddy alley⁵⁷; and at sight of her they gave over their pastime in order to stare. She smiled brilliantly upon them, but they were too struck with wonder to comprehend that the manifestation⁵⁸ was friendly; and as Alice picked her way in a little detour⁵⁹ to keep from the mud, she heard one of them say, “Lady got cane! Jeez'!”
 
She knew that many coloured children use impieties⁶⁰ familiarly, and she was not startled. She was disturbed, however, by an unfavourable hint in the speaker's tone. He was six, probably, but the sting of a criticism is not necessarily allayed⁶¹ by knowledge of its ignoble⁶² source, and Alice had already begun to feel a slight uneasiness about her cane. Mrs. Dowling's stare had been strikingly projected at it; other women more than merely glanced, their brows and lips contracting impulsively⁶³; and Alice was aware that one or two of them frankly⁶⁴ halted as soon as she had passed.
 
She had seen in several magazines pictures of ladies with canes⁶⁵, and on that account she had bought this one, never questioning that fashion is recognized, even in the provinces, as soon as beheld⁶⁶. On the contrary, these staring women obviously failed to realize that what they were being shown was not an eccentric outburst, but the bright harbinger of an illustrious mode. Alice had applied⁶⁷ a bit of artificial pigment⁶⁸ to her lips and cheeks before she set forth this morning; she did not need it, having a ready colour of her own, which now mounted high with annoyance⁶⁹.
 
Then a splendidly shining closed black automobile⁷⁰, with windows of polished glass, came silently down the street toward her. Within it, as in a luxurious⁷¹ little apartment, three comely⁷² ladies in mourning sat and gossiped; but when they saw Alice they clutched one another. They instantly recovered, bowing to her solemnly as they were borne by, yet were not gone from her sight so swiftly but the edge of her side glance caught a flash of teeth in mouths suddenly opened, and the dark glisten⁷³ of black gloves again clutching to share mirth.
 
The colour that outdid the rouge⁷⁴ on Alice's cheek extended its area and grew warmer as she realized how all too cordial had been her nod and smile to these humorous ladies. But in their identity lay a significance causing her a sharper smart, for they were of the family of that Lamb, chief of Lamb and Company, who had employed her father since before she was born.
 
“And know his salary! They'd be SURE to find out about that!” was her thought, coupled with another bitter one to the effect that they had probably made instantaneous financial estimates of what she wore though certainly her walking-stick had most fed their hilarity⁷⁵.
 
She tucked it under her arm, not swinging it again; and her breath became quick and irregular as emotion beset⁷⁶ her. She had been enjoying her walk, but within the space of the few blocks she had gone since she met the substantial gentleman, she found that more than the walk was spoiled: suddenly her life seemed to be spoiled, too; though she did not view the ruin with complaisance⁷⁷. These Lamb women thought her and her cane ridiculous, did they? she said to herself. That was their parvenu⁷⁸ blood: to think because a girl's father worked for their grandfather she had no right to be rather striking in style, especially when the striking WAS her style. Probably all the other girls and women would agree with them and would laugh at her when they got together, and, what might be fatal, would try to make all the men think her a silly pretender. Men were just like sheep, and nothing was easier than for women to set up as shepherds and pen them in a fold. “To keep out outsiders,” Alice thought. “And make 'em believe I AM an outsider. What's the use of living?”
 
All seemed lost when a trim young man appeared, striding out of a cross-street not far before her, and, turning at the corner, came toward her. Visibly, he slackened his gait to lengthen⁷⁹ the time of his approach, and, as he was a stranger to her, no motive⁸⁰ could be ascribed to him other than a wish to have a longer time to look at her.
 
She lifted a pretty hand to a pin at her throat, bit her lip—not with the smile, but mysteriously—and at the last instant before her shadow touched the stranger, let her eyes gravely meet his. A moment later, having arrived before the house which was her destination, she halted at the entrance to a driveway leading through fine lawns to the intentionally⁸¹ important mansion⁸². It was a pleasant and impressive place to be seen entering, but Alice did not enter at once. She paused, examining a tiny bit of mortar⁸³ which the masons had forgotten to scrape from a brick in one of the massive gate-posts. She frowned at this tiny defacement, and with an air of annoyance scraped it away, using the ferrule of her cane an act of fastidious proprietorship⁸⁴. If any one had looked back over his shoulder he would not have doubted that she lived there.
 
Alice did not turn to see whether anything of the sort happened or not, but she may have surmised⁸⁵ that it did. At all events, it was with an invigorated step that she left the gateway⁸⁶ behind her and went cheerfully up the drive to the house of her friend Mildred.