THISbookmightbecalledalsoTheTriumphofLove.Berthawaslookingoutofwindow,atthebleaknessoftheday.Theskywassombreandthecloudsheavyandlowtheneglectedcarriage-drivewassweptbythebitterwind,andtheelm-treesthatbordereditwerebareofleaf,theirnakedbranchesshiveringwithhorrorofthecold.ItwastheendofNovember,andthedaywasutterlycheerless.ThedyingyearseemedtohavecastoverallNaturetheterrorofdeaththeimaginationwouldnotbringtotheweariedmindthoughtsofthemercifulsunshine,thoughtsoftheSpringcomingasamaidentoscatterfromherbasketstheflowersandthegreenleaves.
Berthaturnedroundandlookedatheraunt,cuttingtheleavesofanewSpectator.WonderingwhatbookstogetdownfromMudie’s,MissLeyreadtheautumnlistsandthelaudatoryexpressionswhichtheadroitnessofpublishersextractsfromunfavourablereviews.
“You’reveryrestlessthisafternoon,Bertha,”sheremarked,inanswertothegirl’ssteadygaze.
“IthinkIshallwalkdowntothegate.”
“You’vealreadyvisitedthegatetwiceinthelasthour.Doyoufindinitsomethingalarminglynovel?”
Berthadidnotreply,butturnedagaintothewindow:thesceneinthelasttwohourshadfixeditselfuponhermindwithmonotonousaccuracy.
“Whatareyouthinkingabout,AuntPolly?”sheaskedsuddenly,turningbacktoherauntandcatchingtheeyesfixeduponher.
“Iwasthinkingthatonemustbeverypenetrativetodiscoverawoman’semotionsfromtheviewofherbackhair.”
Berthalaughed:“Idon’tthinkIhaveanyemotionstodiscover.Ifeel...”shesoughtforsomewayofexpressingthesensation—“IfeelasifIshouldliketotakemyhairdown.”
MissLeymadenorejoinder,butlookedagainatherpaper.Shehardlywonderedwhatherniecemeant,havinglongceasedtobeastonishedatBertha’swaysanddoingsindeed,heronlysurprisewasthattheyneversufficientlycorroboratedthecommonopinionthatBerthawasanindependentyoungwomanfromwhomanythingmightbeexpected.Inthethreey