She was suitably dressed for a walk. Her shoes were sensible,
and so was her hair. Amy had run to fluffiness. Hortense had
often favored heavy waves and emphatic bandeaux. But Carolyn's
hair was drawn back plainly from her forehead, and was
gathered in a small, low-set knot. "Still, it's no concern of
mine," he reminded himself, and walked on ahead.
Carolyn's sensible shoes brought her back, with the others, at
twilight. The three took up rather ornamentally (with aid from
Peter and Helga) the lighter details of housekeeping. Toward the
end of the stroll, Cope and Carolyn,--perhaps upon the mere
unconscious basis of youth,--had rather fallen in together, and
Medora Phillips, once or twice, had had to safeguard for herself
her face and eyesight from the young trees that bordered their
path. But that evening, as they sat on a settle before the driftwood
fire, Medora took pains to place herself in the middle.
Carolyn was a sweet young flower, doubtless--humbler, possibly,
than Amy or Hortense; yet she too perhaps must be extirpated,
gently but firmly, from the garden of desire.
"You look better already," Medora said to Cope.
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