This from her--who
had always believed she would end her days in New York, or perhaps write
a realistic novel exposing some mighty evil!
"Ah, well--it's all in the day's work!"--she had been saying that to
herself as she covered her typewriter, and then, just as she was fearing
that her exit would be a maudlin one, Joe called up to say that he did
not think it would be too cold for the machine, and why not spin out
somewhere on the North Shore for a good dinner? Now that had been nice of
Joe, for it tided her over the good-byes.
To-day she was engaged in the pre-nuptial rite of destroying her past,
indulging in the letter destroying ceremonial which seems always to
attend the eve of matrimony. It was so that Ernestine found her when she
stopped on her way from the university that afternoon.
Mrs. McCormick was sewing yards upon yards of lace on something when
Ernestine came in. "She's right in there," she said, referring to Georgia
in a sepulchral tone which might fittingly have been employed for: "The
remains have been laid out in the front room.
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