BERNICE BOBS HER HAIR
AFTER DARK on Saturday night one
could stand on the first tee
of the golf-course and see the
country-club windows as a yellow
expanse over a very black and
wavy ocean. The waves of this ocean,
so to speak, were the heads of
many curious caddies, a few of the
more ingenious chauffeurs, the
golf professional's deaf sister and
there were usually several stray,
diffident waves who might have
rolled inside had they so
desired. This was the gallery.
The balcony was inside. It
consisted of the circle of wicker chairs
that lined the wall of the
combination clubroom and ballroom. At
these Saturday-night dances it
was largely feminine; a great babel
of middle-aged ladies with sharp
eyes and icy hearts behind lor-
gnettes and large bosoms. The
main function of the balcony was
critical. It occasionally showed
grudging admiration, but never
approval, for it is well known
among ladies over thirty-five that
when the younger set dance in the
summer-time it is with the very
worst intentions in the world,
and if they are not bombarded with
stony eyes stray couples will
dance weird barbaric interludes in the
corners, and the more popular,
more dangerous, girls will some-
times be kissed in the parked
limousines of unsuspecting dowa-
gers.
But, after all, this critical circle
is not close enough to the stage
to see the actors' faces and
catch the subtler byplay. It can only
frown and lean, ask questions and
make satisfactory deductions
from its set of postulates, such
as the one which states that every
young man with a large income
leads the life of a hunted partridge.
It never really appreciates the
drama of the shifting, semicruel
world of adolescence. No; boxes,
orchestra-circle, principals, and
chorus are represented by the
medley of faces and voices that sway
to the plaintive African rhythm
of Dyer's dance orchestra.
From sixteen-year-old Otis Ormonde,
who has two more years at
Hill School, to G. Reece
Stoddard, over whose bureau at home hangs
a Harvard law diploma; from
little Madeleine Hogue, whose hair
still feels strange and
uncomfortable on top of her head, to Bessie
MacRae, who has been the life of
the party a little too long more
than ten years the medley is not
only the centre of the stage but
contains the only people capable
of getting an unobstructed view
of it.
With a flourish and a bang the
music stops. The couples exchange
artificial, effortless smiles,
facetiously repeat "la-de-da-da dum-dum"
and then the clatter of young
feminine voices soars over the burst
of clapping.
A few disappointed stags caught
in midfloor as they had been
about to cut in subsided
listlessly back to the walls, because this
was not like the riotous
Christmas dances these summer hops were
considered just pleasantly warm
and exciting, where even the younger
marrieds rose and performed
ancient waltzes and terrifying fox trots
to the tolerant amusement of their
younger brothers and sisters.
Warren Mclntyre, who casually
attended Yale, being one of the
unfortunate stags, felt in his
dinner-coat pocket for a cigarette and
strolled out onto the wide,
semidark veranda, where couples were
scattered at tables, filling the
lantern-hung night with vague words
and hazy laughter. He nodded here
and there at the less absorbed
and as he passed each couple some
half-forgotten fragment of a
story played in his mind, for it
was not a large city and every one
was Who's Who to every one else's
past. There, for example, were
Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest,
who had been privately engaged
for three years. Every one knew
that as soon as Jim managed to
hold a job for more than two
months she would marry him. Yet
how bored they both looked, and
how wearily Ethel regarded Jim
sometimes, as if she wondered why
she had trained the vines of her
affection on such a wind-shaken
poplar.
Warren was nineteen and rather
pitying with those of his friends
who hadn't gone East to college.
But, like most boys, he bragged
tremendously about the girls of
his city when he was away from it.
There was Genevieve Ormonde, who
regularly made the rounds of
dances, house-parties, and
football games at Princeton, Yale, Wil-
liams, and Cornell ; there was
black-eyed Roberta Dillon, who was
quite as famous to her own
generation as Hiram Johnson or Ty
Cobb ; and, of course, there was
Marjorie Harvey, who besides hav-
ing a fairylike face and a dazzling,
bewildering tongue was already
justly celebrated for having
turned five cart-wheels in succession
during the past pump-and-slipper
dance at New Haven.
Warren, who had grown up across
the street from Marjorie, had
long been "crazy about
her." Sometimes she seemed to reciprocate
his feeling with a faint
gratitude, but she had tried him by her in-
fallible test and informed him
gravely that she did not love him.
Her test was that when she was
away from him she forgot him and
had affairs with other boys.
Warren found this discouraging, espe-
cially as Marjorie had been
making little trips all summer, and for
the first two or three days after
each arrival home he saw great
heaps of mail on the Harveys'
hall table addressed to her in various
masculine handwritings. To make
matters worse, all during the
month of August she had been
visited by her cousin Bernice from
Eau Claire, and it seemed
impossible to see her alone. It was always
necessary to hunt round and find
some one to take care of Bernice.
As August waned this was becoming
more and more difficult.
Much as Warren worshipped
Marjorie, he had to admit that
Cousin Bernice was sorta
dopeless. She was pretty, with dark hair
and high color, but she was no
fun on a party. Every Saturday
night he danced a long arduous
duty dance with her to please Mar-
jorie, but he had never been
anything but bored in her company.
"Warren" a soft voice
at his elbow broke in upon his thoughts,
and he turned to see Marjorie,
flushed and radiant as usual. She laid
a hand on his shoulder and a glow
settled almost imperceptibly
over him.
"Warren," she
whispered, "do something for me dance with
Bernice. She's been stuck with
little Otis Ormonde for almost an
hour."
Warren's glow faded.
"Why sure," he answered
half-heartedly.
"You don't mind, do you?
I'll see that you don't get stuck."
"'Sail right.".
Marjorie smiled that smile that
was thanks enough.
“You're an angel, and I'm obliged
loads."
With a sigh the angel glanced
round the veranda, but Bernice
and Otis were not in sight. He
wandered back inside, and there
in front of the women's
dressing-room he found Otis in the centre
of a group of young men who were
convulsed with laughter. Otis
was brandishing a piece of timber
he had picked up, and discours-
ing volubly.
"She's gone in to fix her
hair," he announced wildly. "I'm waiting
to dance another hour with
her."
Their laughter was renewed.
"Why don't some of you cut
in?" cried Otis resentfully. "She
likes more variety."
"Why, Otis," suggested
a friend, "you've just barely got used to
her."
"Why the two-by-four,
Otis?" inquired Warren, smiling.
"The two-by-four? Oh, this?
This is a club. When she comes out
I'll hit her on the head and
knock her in again."
Warren collapsed on a settee and
howled with glee.
"Never mind, Otis," he
articulated finally. "I'm relieving you this
time."
Otis simulated a sudden fainting
attack and handed the stick to
Warren.
"If you need it, old
man," he said hoarsely.
No matter how beautiful or
brilliant a girl may be, the reputation
of not being frequently cut in on
makes her position at a dance
unfortunate. Perhaps boys prefer
her company to that of the butter-
flies with whom they dance a
dozen times an evening, but youth
in this jazz-nourished generation
is temperamentally restless, and
the idea of fox-trotting more
than one full fox trot with the same
girl is distasteful, not to say odious.
When it comes to several dances
and the intermissions between she
can be quite sure that a young
man, once relieved, will never
tread on her wayward toes again.
Warren danced the next full dance
with Bernice, and finally,
thankful for the intermission, he
led her to a table on the veranda.
There was a moment's silence
while she did unimpressive things
with her fan.
"It's hotter here than in
Eau Claire," she said.
Warren stifled a sigh and nodded.
It might be for all he knew
or cared. He wondered idly
whether she was a poor conversationalist
because she got no attention or
got no attention because she was a
poor conversationalist.
"You going to be here much
longer?" he asked, and then turned
rather red. She might suspect his
reasons for asking.
"Another week," she answered,
and stared at him as if to lunge
at his next remark when it left
his lips.
Warren fidgeted. Then with a
sudden charitable impulse he de-
cided to try part of his line on
her. He turned and looked at her
eyes.
"You've got an awfully
kissable mouth," he began quietly.
This was a remark that he
sometimes made to girls at college
proms when they were talking in
just such half dark as this. Bernice
distinctly jumped. She turned an
ungraceful red and became clumsy
with her fan. No one had ever
made such a remark to her before.
"Fresh!" the word had
slipped out before she realized it, and
she bit her lip. Too late she
decided to be amused, and offered him
a flustered smile.
Warren was annoyed. Though not
accustomed to have that re-
mark taken seriously, still it
usually provoked a laugh or a para-
graph of sentimental banter. And
he hated to be called fresh, except
in a joking way. His charitable
impulse died and he switched the
topic.
"Jim Strain and Ethel
Demorest sitting out as usual," he com-
mented.
This was more in Bernice's line,
but a faint regret mingled with
her relief as the subject
changed. Men did not talk to her about
kissable mouths, but she knew
that they talked in some such way
to other girls.
"Oh, yes," she said,
and laughed. "I hear they've been mooning
round for years without a red
penny. Isn't it silly?"
Warren's disgust increased. Jim
Strain was a close friend of his
brother's, and anyway he
considered it bad form to sneer at people
for not having money. But Bernice
had had no intention of sneer-
ing. She was merely nervous.
II
When Marjorie and Bernice reached
home at half after mid-
night they said good night at the
top of the stairs. Though cousins,
they were not intimates. As a
matter of fact Marjorie had no female
intimates she considered girls
stupid. Bernice on the contrary all
through this parent-arranged
visit had rather longed to exchange
those confidences flavored with
giggles and tears that she considered
an indispensable factor in all
feminine intercourse. But in this re-
spect she found Marjorie rather
cold ; felt somehow the same dif-
ficulty in talking to her that she
had in talking to men. Marjorie
never giggled, was never
frightened, seldom embarrassed, and in fact
had very few of the qualities
which Bernice considered appropri-
ately and blessedly feminine.
As Bernice busied herself with
tooth-brush and paste this night
she wondered for the hundredth
time why she never had any atten-
tion when she was away from home.
That her family were the
wealthiest in Eau Claire ; that
her mother entertained tremendously,
gave little dinners for her
daughter before all dances and bought
her a car of her own to drive
round in, never occurred to her as
factors in her home-town social
success. Like most girls she had
been brought up on the warm milk
prepared by Annie Fellows
Johnston and on novels in which
the female was beloved because of
certain mysterious womanly
qualities, always mentioned but never
displayed.
Bernice felt a vague pain that
she was not at present engaged in
being popular. She did not know
that had it not been for Marjorie's
campaigning she would have danced
the entire evening with one
man; but she knew that even in
Eau Claire other girls with less
position and less pulchritude
were given a much bigger rush. She
attributed this to something
subtly unscrupulous in those girls. It
had never worried her, and if it
had her mother would have assured
her that the other girls cheapened
themselves and that men really
respected girls like Bernice.
She turned out the light in her
bathroom, and on an impulse
decided to go in and chat for a
moment with her aunt Josephine,
whose light was still on. Her
soft slippers bore her noiselessly down
the carpeted hall, but hearing
voices inside she stopped near the
partly opened door. Then she caught
her own name, and without
any definite intention of
eavesdropping lingered and the thread of
the conversation going on inside
pierced her consciousness sharply
as if it had been drawn through with
a needle.
"She's absolutely hopeless
1" It was Marjorie's voice. "Oh, I know
what you're going to say I So
many people have told you how pretty
and sweet she is, and how she can
cook ! What of it ? She has a bum
time. Men don't like her."
"What's a little cheap
popularity?"
Mrs. Harvey sounded annoyed.
"It's everything when you're
eighteen," said Marjorie emphati-
cally. "I've done my best.
I've been polite and I've made men dance
with her, but they just won't
stand being bored. When I think of
that goregous coloring wasted on
such a ninny, and think what
Martha Carey could do with it oh
1 "
"There's no courtesy these
days."
Mrs. Harvey's voice implied that
modern situations were too
much for her. When she was a girl
all young ladies who belonged to
nice families had glorious times.
"Well," said Marjorie,
"no girl can permanently bolster up a
lame-duck visitor, because these
days it's every girl for herself. I've
even tried to drop her hints
about clothes and things, and she's been
furious given me the funniest
looks. She's sensitive enough to know
she's not getting away with much,
but I'll bet she consoles herself
by thinking that she's very virtuous
and that I'm too gay and fickle
and will come to a bad end. All
unpopular girls think that way. Sour
grapes ! Sarah Hopkins refers to
Genevieve and Roberta and me as
gardenia girls! I'll bet she'd
give ten years of her life and her Euro-
pean education to be a gardenia
girl and have three or four men
in love with her and be cut in on
every few feet at dances."
"It seems to me," interrupted
Mrs. Harvey rather wearily, "that
you ought to be able to do
something for Bernice. I know she's not
very vivacious."
Marjorie groaned.
"Vivacious! Good grief! I've
never heard her say anything to a
boy except that it's hot or the
floor's crowded or that she's going to
school in New York next year.
Sometimes she asks them what kind
of car they have and tells them
the kind she has. Thrilling ! "
There was a short silence, and
then Mrs. Harvey took up her
refrain :
"All I know is that other
girls not half so sweet and attractive
get partners. Martha Carey, for
instance, is stout and loud, and her
mother is distinctly common.
Roberta Dillon is so thin this year
that she looks as though Arizona
were the place for her. She's danc-
ing herself to death."
"But, mother," objected
Marjorie impatiently, "Martha is cheer-
ful and awfully witty and an
awfully slick girl, and Roberta's a
marvellous dancer. She's been
popular for ages!"
Mrs. Harvey yawned.
"I think it's that crazy
Indian blood in Bernice," continued Mar-
jorie. "Maybe she's a
reversion to type. Indian women all just sat
round and never said
anything."
"Go to bed, you silly
child," laughed Mrs. Harvey. "I wouldn't
have told you that if I'd thought
you were going to remember it.
And I think most of your ideas
are perfectly idiotic," she finished
sleepily.
There was another silence, while
Marjorie considered whether
or not convincing her mother was
worth the trouble. People over
forty can seldom be permanently
convinced of anything. At eighteen
our convictions are ills from
which we look ; at forty-five they are
caves in which we hide.
Having decided this, Marjorie
said good night. When she came
out into the hall it was quite
empty.
Ill
While Marjorie was breakfasting
late next day Bernice came into
the room with a rather formal
good morning, sat down opposite,
stared intently over and slightly
moistened her lips.
"What's on your mind?"
inquired Marjorie, rather puzzled.
Bernice paused before she threw
her hand-grenade.
"I heard what you said about
me to your mother last night."
Marjorie was startled, but she
showed only a faintly heightened
color and her voice was quite
even when she spoke.
"Where were you?"
"In the hall. I didn't mean
to listen at first."
After an involuntary look of
contempt Marjorie dropped her eyes
and became very interested in
balancing a stray corn-flake on her
finger.
"I guess I'd better go back
to Eau Claire if I'm such a nuisance."
Bernice's lower lip was trembling
violently and she continued on a
wavering note: "I've tried
to be nice, and and I've been first
neglected and then insulted. No
one ever visited me and got such
treatment."
Marjorie was silent.
"But I'm in the way, I see.
I'm a drag on you. Your friends don't
like me." She paused, and
then remembered another one of her
grievances. "Of course I was
furious last week when you tried to
hint to me that that dress was
unbecoming. Don't you think I know
how to dress myself?"
"No," murmured Marjorie
less than half-aloud.
"What?"
"I didn't hint anything,"
said Marjorie succinctly. "I said, as I
remember, that it was better to
wear a becoming dress three times
straight than to alternate it
with two frights."
"Do you think that was a
very nice thing to say?"
"I wasn't trying to be
nice." Then after a pause : "When do you
want to go?"
Bernice drew in her breath
sharply.
"Oh ! " It was a little
half-cry.
Marjorie looked up in surprise.
"Didn't you say you were
going?"
"Yes, but "
"Oh, you were only bluffing
! "
They stared at each other across
the breakfast-table for a moment.
Misty waves were passing before
Bernice's eyes, while Marjorie's
face wore that rather hard expression
that she used when slightly
intoxicated undergraduates were
making love to her.
"So you were bluffing,"
she repeated as if it were what she might
have expected.
Bernice admitted it by bursting
into tears. Marjorie's eyes showed
boredom.
"You're my cousin,"
sobbed Bernice. "I'm v-v-visiting you. I was
to stay a month, and if I go home
my mother will know and she'll
wah-wonder "
Marjorie waited until the shower
of broken words collapsed into
little sniffles.
"I'll give you my month's allowance,"
she said coldly, "and you
can spend this last week anywhere
you want. There's a very nice
hotel "
Bernice's sobs rose to a flute
note, and rising of a sudden she fled
from the room.
An hour later, while Marjorie was
in the library absorbed in com-
posing one of those
non-committal, marvellously elusive letters that
only a young girl can write,
Bernice reappeared, very red-eyed and
consciously calm. She cast no
glance at Marjorie but took a book at
random from the shelf and sat
down as if to read. Marjorie seemed
absorbed in her letter and
continued writing. When the clock showed
noon Bernice closed her book with
a snap.
"I suppose I'd better get my
railroad ticket."
This was not the beginning of the
speech she had rehearsed up-
stairs, but as Marjorie was not
getting her cues wasn't urging her
to be reasonable; it's all a
mistake it was the best opening she
could muster.
"Just wait till I finish
this letter," said Marjorie without looking
round. "I want to get it off
in the next mail."
After another minute, during
which her pen scratched busily, she
turned round and relaxed with an
air of "at your service." Again
Bernice had to speak.
"Do you want me to go
home?"
"Well," said Marjorie,
considering, "I suppose if you're not hav-
ing a good time you'd better go.
No use being miserable."
"Don't you think common
kindness "
"Oh, please don't quote
'Little Women'!" cried Marjorie impa-
tiently. "That's out of
style."
"You think so?"
"Heavens, yes! What modern
girl could live like those inane
females?"
"They were the models for
our mothers."
Marjorie laughed.
"Yes, they were not !
Besides, our mothers were all very well in
their way, but they know very
little about their daughters' prob-
lems."
Bernice drew herself up.
"Please don't talk about my
mother."
Marjorie laughed.
"I don't think I mentioned
her."
Bernice felt that she was being
led away from her subject.
"Do you think you've treated
me very well ?"
"I've done my best. You're
rather hard material to work with."
The lids of Bernice's eyes
reddened.
"I think you're hard and
selfish, and you haven't a feminine
quality in you."
"Oh, my Lord ! " cried
Marjorie in desperation. "You little nut !
Girls like you are responsible
for all the tiresome colorless mar-
riages ; all those ghastly
inefficiencies that pass as feminine qualities.
What a blow it must be when a man
with imagination marries the
beautiful bundle of clothes that
he's been building ideals round,
and finds that she's just a weak,
whining, cowardly mass of affec-
tations!"
Bernice's mouth had slipped half
open.
"The womanly woman!"
continued Marjorie. "Her whole early
life is occupied in whining
criticisms of girls like me who really do
have a good time."
Bernice's jaw descended farther
as Marjorie's voice rose.
"There's some excuse for an
ugly girl whining. If I'd been irre-
trievably ugly I'd never have
forgiven my parents for bringing me
into the world. But you're
starting life without any handicap "
Marjorie's little fist clinched.
"If you expect me to weep with you
you'll be disappointed. Go or
stay, just as you like." And picking
up her letters she left the room.
Bernice claimed a headache and failed
to appear at luncheon.
They had a matinee date for the
afternoon, but the headache per-
sisting, Marjorie made
explanations to a not very downcast boy. But
when she returned late in the
afternoon she found Bernice with a
strangely set face waiting for
her in her bedroom.
"I've decided," began
Bernice without preliminaries, "that maybe
you're right about things
possibly not. But if you'll tell me why
your friends aren't aren't
interested in me I'll see if I can do what
you want me to."
Marjorie was at the mirror
shaking down her hair.
"Do you mean it?"
"Yes"
"Without reservations? Will
you do exactly what I say?"
"Well, I "
"Well nothing! Will you do
exactly as I say?"
"If they're sensible
things."
"They're not ! You're no case
for sensible things."
"Are you going to make to
recommend "
"Yes, everything. If I tell
you to take boxing lessons you'll have
to do it. Write home and tell
your mother you're going to stay
another two weeks."
"If you'll tell me "
"All right I'll just give
you a few examples now. First, you have
no ease of manner. Why ? Because
you're never sure about your per-
sonal appearance. When a girl
feels that she's perfectly groomed
and dressed she can forget that
part of her. That's charm. The more
parts of yourself you can afford
to forget the more charm you have."
"Don't I look all
right?"
"No ; for instance, you
never take care of your eyebrows. They're
black and lustrous, but by
leaving them straggly they're a blemish.
They'd be beautiful if you'd take
care of them in one-tenth the time
you take doing nothing. You're
going to brush them so that they'll
grow straight."
Bernice raised the brows in
question.
"Do you mean to say that men
notice eyebrows?"
"Yes subconsciously. And
when you go home you ought to
have your teeth straightened a
little. It's almost imperceptible,
still "
"But I thought,"
interrupted Bernice in bewilderment, "that you
despised little dainty feminine
things like that."
"I hate dainty minds/'
answered Marjorie. "But a girl has to be
dainty in person. If she looks
like a million dollars she can talk
about Russia, ping-pong, or the
League of Nations and get away
with it."
"What else?"
"Oh, I'm just beginning !
There's your dancing."
"Don't I dance all
right?"
"No, you don't you lean on a
man ; yes, you do ever so slightly.
I noticed it when we were dancing
together yesterday. And you
dance standing up straight
instead of bending over a little. Probably
some old lady on the side-line
once told you that you looked so
dignified that way. But except
with a very small girl it's much
harder on the man, and he's the
one that counts."
"Go on." Bernice's
brain was reeling.
"Well, you've got to learn
to be nice to men who are sad birds.
You look as if you'd been
insulted whenever you're thrown with any
except the most popular boys. Why,
Bernice, I'm cut in on every
few feet and who does most of it?
Why, those very sad birds. No
girl can afford to neglect them.
They're the big part of any crowd.
Young boys too shy to talk are
the very best conversational prac-
tice. Clumsy boys are the best
dancing practice. If you can follow
them and yet look graceful you
can follow a baby tank across a
barb-wire sky-scraper."
Bernice sighed profoundly, but
Marjorie was not through.
"If you go to a dance and
really amuse, say, three sad birds that
dance with you ; if you talk so
well to them that they forget they're
stuck with you, you've done
something. They'll come back next
time, and gradually so many sad
birds will dance with you that the
attractive boys will see there's
no danger of being stuck then
they'll dance with you."
"Yes," agreed Bernice
faintly. "I think I begin to see."
"And finally,"
concluded Marjorie, "poise and charm will just
come. You'll wake up some morning
knowing youVe attained it, and
men will know it too."
Bernice rose.
"It's been awfully kind of
you but nobody's ever talked to me
like this before, and I feel sort
of startled,"
Marjorie made no answer but gazed
pensively at her own image
in the mirror.
"You're a peach to help
me," continued Bernice.
Still Marjorie did not answer,
and Bernice thought she had
seemed too grateful.
"I know you don't like sentiment,"
she said timidly.
Marjorie turned to her quickly.
"Oh, I wasn't thinking about
that. I was considering whether we
hadn't better bob your
hair."
Bernice collapsed backward upon
the bed.
IV
On the following Wednesday
evening there was a dinner-dance at
the country club. When the guests
strolled in Bernice found her
place-card with a slight feeling
of irritation. Though at her right sat
G. Reece Stoddard, a most
desirable and distinguished young bache-
lor, the all-important left held
only Charley Paulson. Charley lacked
height, beauty, and social
shrewdness, and in her new enlightenment
Bernice decided that his only
qualification to be her partner was
that he had never been stuck with
her. But this feeling of irritation
left with the last of the
soup-plates, and Marjorie's specific instruc-
tion came to her. Swallowing her
pride she turned to Charley Paul-
son and plunged.
"Do you think I ought to bob
my hair, Mr. Charley Paulson?"
Charley looked up in surprise.
"Why?"
"Because I'm considering it.
It's such a sure and easy way of
attracting attention."
Charley smiled pleasantly. He could
not know this had been re-
hearsed. He replied that he
didn't know much about bobbed hair.
But Bernice was there to tell him.
"I want to be a society
vampire, you see," she announced coolly,
and went on to inform him that
bobbed hair was the necessary prel-
ude. She added that she wanted to
ask his advice, because she had
heard he was so critical about
girls.
Charley, who knew as much about
the psychology of women as he
did of the mental states of
Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguely
flattered.
"So I've decided," she
continued, her voice rising slightly, "that
early next week I'm going down to
the Sevier Hotel barber-shop, sit
in the first chair, and get my
hair bobbed." She faltered, noticing
that the people near her had
paused in their conversation and were
listening ; but after a confused
second Marjorie's coaching told, and
she finished her paragraph to the
vicinity at large. "Of course I'm
charging admission, but if you'll
all come down and encourage me
I'll issue passes for the inside
seats."
There was a ripple of
appreciative laughter, and under cover of it
G. Reece Stoddard leaned over
quickly and said close to her ear : "I'll
take a box right now."
She met his eyes and smiled as if
he had said something surpass-
ingly brilliant.
"Do you believe in bobbed
hair?" asked G. Reece in the same
undertone.
"I think it's unmoral,"
affirmed Bernice gravely. "But, of course,
you've either got to amuse people
or feed 'em or shock 'em." Mar-
jorie had culled this from Oscar
Wilde. It was greeted with a ripple
of laughter from the men and a
series of quick, intent looks from the
girls. And then as though she had
said nothing of wit or moment
Bernice turned again to Charley
and spoke confidentially in his ear.
"I want to ask you your
opinion of several people. I imagine you're
a wonderful judge of
character."
Charley thrilled faintly paid her
a subtle compliment by over-
turning her water.
Two hours later, while Warren
Mclntyre was standing passively in
the stag line abstractedly
watching the dancers and wondering
whither and with whom Marjorie
had disappeared, ah unrelated per-
ception began to creep slowly
upon him a perception that Bernice,
cousin to Marjorie, had been cut
in on several times in the past five
minutes. He closed his eyes,
opened them and looked again. Several
minutes back she had been dancing
with a visiting boy, a matter
easily accounted for ; a visiting
boy would know no better. But now
she was dancing with some one
else, and there was Charley Paulson
headed for her with enthusiastic
determination in his eye.
Funny Charley seldom danced with
more than three girls an
evening.
Warren was distinctly surprised
when the exchange having been
effected the man relieved proved
to be none other than G. Reece
Stoddard himself. And G. Reece
seemed not at all jubilant at being
relieved. Next time Bernice danced
near, Warren regarded her in-
tently. Yes, she was pretty,
distinctly pretty ; and to-night her face
seemed really vivacious. She had
that look that no woman, however
histrionically proficient, can
successfully counterfeit she looked as
if she were having a good time.
He liked the way she had her hair
arranged, wondered if it was
brilliantine that made it glisten so. And
that dress was becoming a dark
red that set off her shadowy eyes
and high coloring. He remembered
that he had thought her pretty
when she first came to town,
before he had realized that she was
dull. Too bad she was dull dull
girls unbearable certainly pretty
though.
His thoughts zigzagged back to
Marjorie. This disappearance
would be like other disappearances.
When she reappeared he would
demand where she had been would
be told emphatically that it was
none of his business. What a pity
she was so sure of him ! She basked
in the knowledge that no other
girl in town interested him ; she defied
him to fall in love with
Genevieve or Roberta.
Warren sighed. The way to
Marjorie's affections was a labyrinth
indeed. He looked up. Bernice was
again dancing with the visiting
boy. Half unconsciously he took a
step out from the stag line in her
direction, and hesitated. Then he
said to himself that it was charity.
He walked toward her collided
suddenly with G. Reece Stod-
dard.
''Pardon me," said Warren.
But G. Reece had not stopped to
apologize. He had again cut in
on Bernice.
That night at one o'clock
Marjorie, with one hand on the electric-
light switch in the hall, turned
to take a last look at Bernice's
sparkling eyes.
"So it worked?"
"Oh, Marjorie, yes ! "
cried Bernice.
"I saw you were having a gay
time."
"I did 1 The only trouble
was that about midnight I ran short of
talk. I had to repeat myself with
different men of course. I hope
they won't compare notes."
"Men don't," said
Marjorie, yawning, "and it wouldn't matter if
they did they'd think you were
even trickier."
She snapped out the light, and as
they started up the stairs
Bernice grasped the banister
thankfully. For the first time in her life
she had been danced tired.
"You see," said
Marjorie at the top of the stairs, "one man sees
another man cut in and he thinks
there must be something there.
Well, we'll fix up some new stuff
to-morrow. Good night."
"Good night."
As Bernice took down her hair she
passed the evening before her
in review. She had followed
instructions exactly. Even when Charley
Paulson cut in for the eighth
time she had simulated delight and had
apparently been both interested
and flattered. She had not talked
about the weather or Eau Claire
or automobiles or her school, but
had confined her conversation to
me, you, and us.
But a few minutes before she fell
asleep a rebellious thought was
churning drowsily in her brain
after all, it was she who had done
it. Marjorie, to be sure, had
given her her conversation, but then
Marjorie got much of her conversation
out of things she read. Bernice
had bought the red dress, though
she had never valued it highly
before Marjorie dug it out of her
trunk and her own voice had
said the words, her own lips had
smiled, her own feet had danced.
Marjorie nice girl vain, though
nice evening nice boys like
Warren Warren Warren
whafs-his-name Warren
She fell asleep.
To Bernice the next week was a
revelation. With the feeling that
people really enjoyed looking at
her and listening to her came the
foundation of self-confidence. Of
course there were numerous mis-
takes at first. She did not know,
for instance, that Draycott Deyo
was studying for the ministry ;
she was unaware that he had cut in
on her because he thought she was
a quiet, reserved girl. Had she
known these things she would not
have treated him to the line which
began "Hello, Shell Shock !
" and continued with the bathtub story
"It takes a frightful lot of
energy to fix my hair in the summer
there's so much of it so I always
fix it first and powder my face
and put on my hat ; then I get
into the bathtub, and dress afterward.
Don't you think that's the best
plan?"
Though Draycott Deyo was in the
throes of difficulties concerning
baptism by immersion and might
possibly have seen a connection, it
must be admitted that he did not.
He considered feminine bathing
an immoral subject, and gave her
some of his ideas on the depravity
of modern society.
But to offset that unfortunate
occurrence Bernice had several
signal successes to her credit. Little
Otis Ormonde pleaded off from
a trip East and elected instead
to follow her with a puppylike devo-
tion, to the amusement of his
crowd and to the irritation of G. Reece
Stoddard, several of whose
afternoon calls Otis completely ruined by
the disgusting tenderness of the
glances he bent on Bernice. He even
told her the story of the
two-by-four and the dressing-room to show
her how frightfully mistaken he
and every one else had been in their
first judgment of her. Bernice
laughed off that incident with a slight
sinking sensation.
Of all Bernice's conversation
perhaps the best known and most
universally approved was the line
about the bobbing of her hair.
"Oh, Bernice, when you goin'
to get the hair bobbed?"
"Day after to-morrow
maybe," she would reply, laughing. "Will
you come and see me? Because I'm
counting on you, you know."
"Will we? You know! But you
better hurry up."
Bernice, whose tonsorial
intentions were strictly dishonorable,
would laugh again.
"Pretty soon now. You'd be
surprised."
But perhaps the most significant
symbol of her success was the
gray car of the hypercritical
Warren Mclntyre, parked daily in front
of the Harvey house. At first the
parlor-maid was distinctly startled
when he asked for Bernice instead
of Marjorie ; after a week of it
she told the cook that Miss
Bernice had gotta holda Miss Marjorie's
best fella.
And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it
began with Warren's desire to
rouse jealousy in Marjorie ;
perhaps it was the familiar though un-
recognized strain of Marjorie in
Bernice's conversation; perhaps it
was both of these and something
of sincere attraction besides. But
somehow the collective mind of
the younger set knew within a week
that Marjorie's most reliable beau
had made an amazing face-about
and was giving an indisputable
rush to Marjorie's guest. The question
of the moment was how Marjorie
would take it. Warren called
Bernice on the 'phone twice a
day, sent her notes, and they were fre-
quently seen together in his
roadster, obviously engrossed in one of
those tense, significant
conversations as to whether or not he was
sincere.
Marjorie on being twitted only
laughed. She said she was mighty
glad that Warren had at last
found some one who appreciated him.
So the younger set laughed, too,
and guessed that Marjorie didn't
care and let it go at that.
One afternoon when there were
only three days left of her visit
Bernice was waiting in the hall
for Warren, with whom she was
going to a bridge party. She was
in rather a blissful mood, and when
Marjorie also bound for the party
appeared beside her and began
casually to adjust her hat in the
mirror, Bernice was utterly unpre-
pared for anything in the nature
of a clash. Marjorie did her work
very coldly and succinctly in
three sentences.
"You may as well get Warren
out of your head," she said coldly.
"What ?" Bernice was
utterly astounded.
"You may as well stop making
a fool of yourself over Warren
Mclntyre. He doesn't care a snap
of his fingers about you."
For a tense moment they regarded
each other Marjorie scornful,
aloof; Bernice astounded,
half-angry, half-afraid. Then two cars
drove up in front of the house
and there was a riotous honking. Both
of them gasped faintly, turned,
and side by side hurried out.
All through the bridge party
Bernice strove in vain to master a
rising uneasiness. She had
offended Marjorie, the sphinx of sphinxes.
With the most wholesome and
innocent intentions in the world she
had stolen Marjorie's property.
She felt suddenly and horribly guilty.
After the bridge game, when they
sat in an informal circle and the
conversation became general, the
storm gradually broke. Little Otis
Ormonde inadvertently
precipitated it.
"When you going back to
kindergarten, Otis?" some one had
asked.
"Me? Day Bernice gets her
hair bobbed."
"Then your education's
over," said Marjorie quickly. "That's only
a bluff of hers. I should think
you'd have realized."
"That a fact?" demanded
Otis, giving Bernice a reproachful glance.
Bernice's ears burned as she
tried to think up an effectual come-
back. In the face of this direct
attack her imagination was paralyzed.
"There's a lot of bluffs in
the world," continued Marjorie quite
pleasantly. "I should think
you'd be young enough to know that,
Otis."
"Well," said Otis,
"maybe so. But gee! With a line like Ber-
nice's "
"Really?" yawned
Marjorie. "What's her latest bon mot?"
No one seemed to know. In fact,
Bernice, having trifled with her
muse's beau, had said nothing
memorable of late.
"Was that really all a
line?" asked Roberta curiously.
Bernice hesitated. She felt that
wit in some form was demanded of
her, but under her cousin's
suddenly frigid eyes she was completely
incapacitated.
"I don't know," she
stalled.
"Splush ! " said Marjorie.
"Admit it ! "
Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had
left a ukulele he had been
tinkering with and were fixed on
her questioningly.
"Oh, I don't know ! "
she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were glow-
ing.
"Splush ! " remarked
Marjorie again.
"Come through,
Bernice," urged Otis. "Tell her where to get off."
Bernice looked round again she
seemed unable to get away from
Warren's eyes.
"I like bobbed hair,"
she said hurriedly, as if he had asked her a
question, "and I intend to
bob mine."
"When?" demanded
Marjorie.
"Any time."
"No time like the
present," suggested Roberta.
Otis jumped to his feet.
"Good stuff!" he cried.
"We'll have a summer bobbing party.
Sevier Hotel barber-shop, I think
you said."
In an instant all were on their
feet. Bernice's heart throbbed
violently.
"What?" she gasped.
Out of the group came Marjorie's
voice, very clear and con-
temptuous.
"Don't worry shell back out!"
"Come on, Bernice!"
cried Otis, starting toward the door.
Four eyes Warren's and Marjorie's
stared at her, challenged
her, defied her. For another
second she wavered wildly.
"All right," she said
swiftly, "I don't care if I do."
An eternity of minutes later,
riding down-town through the late
afternoon beside Warren, the
others following in Roberta's car close
behind, Bernice had all the
sensations of Marie Antoinette bound
for the guillotine in a tumbrel.
Vaguely she wondered why she did
not cry out that it was all a
mistake. It was all she could do to keep
from clutching her hair with both
hands to protect it from the sud-
denly hostile world. Yet she did
neither. Even the thought of her
mother was no deterrent now. This
was the test supreme of her
sportsmanship ; her right to walk
unchallenged in the starry heaven
of popular girls.
Warren was moodily silent, and
when they came to the hotel he
drew up at the curb and nodded to
Bernice to precede him out.
Roberta's car emptied a laughing
crowd into the shop, which pre-
sented two bold plate-glass
windows to the street.
Bernice stood on the curb and
looked at the sign, Sevier Barber-
Shop. It was a guillotine indeed,
and the hangman was the first bar-
ber, who, attired in a white coat
and smoking a cigarette, leaned
nonchalantly against the first
chair. He must have heard of her ; he
must have been waiting all week,
smoking eternal cigarettes beside
that portentous,
too-often-mentioned first chair. Would they blind-
fold her ? No, but they would tie
a white cloth round her neck lest
any of her blood nonsense hair
should get on her clothes.
"All right, Bernice,"
said Warren quickly.
With her chin in the air she
crossed the sidewalk, pushed open
the swinging screen-door, and
giving not a glance to the uproarious,
riotous row that occupied the
waiting bench, went up to the first
barber.
"I want you to bob my
hair."
The first barber's mouth slid
somewhat open. His cigarette dropped
to the floor.
"Huh?"
"My hair bob it!"
Refusing further preliminaries,
Bernice took her seat on high. A
man in the chair next to her
turned on his side and gave her a glance,
half lather, half amazement. One
barber started and spoiled little
Willy Schuneman's monthly
haircut. Mr. O'Reilly in the last chair
grunted and swore musically in
ancient Gaelic as a razor bit into his
cheek. Two bootblacks became
wide-eyed and rushed for her feet.
No, Bernice didn't care for a
shine.
Outside a passer-by stopped and
stared ; a couple joined him ; half
a dozen small boys' noses sprang
into life, flattened against the glass ;
and snatches of conversation
borne on the summer breeze drifted
in through the screen-door.
"Lookada long hair on a kid
! "
"Where'd yuh get 'at stuff?
'At's a bearded lady he just finished
shavin'."
But Bernice saw nothing, heard
nothing. Her only living sense
told her that this man in the
white coat had removed one tortoise-
shell comb and then another ;
that his fingers were fumbling clumsily
with unfamiliar hairpins ; that
this hair, this wonderful hair of hers,
was going she would never again
feel its long voluptuous pull as it
hung in a dark-brown glory down
her back. For a second she was
near breaking down, and then the
picture before her swam mechani-
cally into her vision Marjorie's
mouth curling in a faint ironic
smile as if to say :
"Give up and get down! You
tried to buck me and I called your
bluff. You see you haven't got a
prayer."
And some last energy rose up in
Bernice, for she clinched her hands
under the white cloth, and there
was a curious narrowing of her eyes
that Marjorie remarked on to some
one long afterward.
Twenty minutes later the barber
swung her round to face the mir-
ror, and she flinched at the full
extent of the damage that had been
wrought. Her hair was not curly,
and now it lay in lank lifeless blocks
on both sides of her suddenly
pale face. It was ugly as sin she had
known it would be ugly as sin.
Her face's chief charm had been a
Madonna-like simplicity. Now that
was gone and she was well,
frightfully mediocre not stagy;
only ridiculous, like a Greenwich
Villager who had left her
spectacles at home.
As she climbed down from the
chair she tried to smile failed
miserably. She saw two of the
girls exchange glances ; noticed Mar-
jorie's mouth curved in
attenuated mockery and that Warren's eyes
were suddenly very cold.
"You see" her words
fell into an awkward pause "I've done it."
"Yes, you've done it,"
admitted Warren.
"Do you like it?"
There was a half-hearted "Sure"
from two or three voices, another
awkward pause, and then Marjorie
turned swiftly and with serpent-
like intensity to Warren.
"Would you mind running me
down to the cleaners?" she asked.
"I've simply got to get a
dress there before supper. Roberta's driving
right home and she can take the
others."
Warren stared abstractedly at
some infinite speck out the window.
Then for an instant his eyes
rested coldly on Bernice before they
turned to Marjorie.
"Be glad to," he said
slowly.
VI
Bernice did not fully realize the
outrageous trap that had been set
for her until she met her aunt's
amazed glance just before dinner.
"Why, Bernice ! "
"I've bobbed it, Aunt
Josephine."
" Why, child!"
"Do you like it?"
"Why, Ber-nice ! "
"I suppose I've shocked
you."
"No, but what'll Mrs. Deyo
think to-morrow night? Bernice, you
should have waited until after
the Deyos' dance you should have
waited if you wanted to do
that."
"It was sudden, Aunt
Josephine. Anyway, why does it matter to
Mrs. Deyo particularly?"
"Why, child," cried Mrs.
Harvey, "in her paper on The Foibles
of the Younger Generation' that
she read at the last meeting of the
Thursday Club she devoted fifteen
minutes to bobbed hair. It's her
pet abomination. And the dance is
for you and Marjorie ! "
"I'm sorry."
"Oh, Bernice, what'll your
mother say? She'll think I let you
do it."
"I'm sorry."
Dinner was an agony. She had made
a hasty attempt with a
curling-iron, and burned her
finger and much hair. She could see that
her aunt was both worried and
grieved, and her uncle kept saying,
"Well, I'll be darned!"
over and over in a hurt and faintly hostile
tone. And Marjorie sat very
quietly, intrenched behind a faint smile,
a faintly mocking smile.
Somehow she got through the
evening. Three boys called ; Mar-
jorie disappeared with one of
them, and Bernice made a listless un-
successful attempt to entertain
the two others sighed thankfully
as she climbed the stairs to her
room at half past ten. What a day!
When she had undressed for the
night the door opened and Mar-
jorie came in.
"Bernice," she said,
"I'm awfully sorry about the Deyo dance. I'll
give you my word of honor I'd
forgotten all about it."
" 'Sail right," said
Bernice shortly. Standing before the mirror she
passed her comb slowly through her
short hair.
"I’ll take you down-town
to-morrow," continued Marjorie, "and
the hairdresser'll fix it so you'll
look slick. I didn't imagine you'd
go through with it. I'm really
mighty sorry."
"Oh, 'sail right!"
"Still it's your last night,
so I suppose it won't matter much."
Then Bernice winced as Marjorie
tossed her own hair over her
shoulders and began to twist it
slowly into two long blond braids
until in her cream-colored
negligee she looked like a delicate painting
of some Saxon princess.
Fascinated, Bernice watched the braids grow.
Heavy and luxurious they were,
moving under the supple fingers like
restive snakes and to Bernice
remained this relic and the curling-
iron and a to-morrow full of
eyes. She could see G. Reece Stoddard,
who liked her, assuming his
Harvard manner and telling his dinner
partner that Bernice shouldn't
have been allowed to go to the movies
so much ; she could see Draycott
Deyo exchanging glances with his
mother and then being conscientiously
charitable to her. But then
perhaps by to-morrow Mrs. Deyo
would have heard the news ; would
send round an icy little note
requesting that she fail to appear and
behind her back they would all
laugh and know that Marjorie had
made a fool of her ; that her
chance at beauty had been sacrificed
to the jealous whim of a selfish
girl. She sat down suddenly before
the mirror, biting the inside of
her cheek.
"I like it," she said
with an effort. "I think it'll be becoming."
Marjorie smiled.
"It looks all right. For
heaven's sake, don't let it worry you!"
"I won't."
"Good night, Bernice."
But as the door closed something
snapped within Bernice. She
sprang dynamically to her feet,
clinching her hands, then swiftly and
noiselessly crossed over to her
bed and from underneath it dragged
out her suitcase. Into it she
tossed toilet articles and a change of
clothing. Then she turned to her
trunk and quickly dumped in two
drawerfuls of lingerie and summer
dresses. She moved quietly, but
with deadly efficiency, and in
three-quarters of an hour her trunk was
locked and strapped and she was
fully dressed in a becoming new
travelling suit that Marjorie had
helped her pick out.
Sitting down at her desk she
wrote a short note to Mrs. Harvey,
in which she briefly outlined her
reasons for going. She sealed it, ad-
dressed it, and laid it on her
pillow. She glanced at her watch. The
train left at one, and she knew
that if she walked down to the Mar-
borough Hotel two blocks away she
could easily get a taxicab.
Suddenly she drew in her breath
sharply and an expression flashed
into her eyes that a practised
character reader might have con-
nected vaguely with the set look
she had worn in the barber's chair
somehow a development of it. It
was quite a new look for Bernice
and it carried consequences.
She went stealthily to the
bureau, picked up an article that lay
there, and turning out all the
lights stood quietly until her eyes be-
came accustomed to the darkness.
Softly she pushed open the door
to Marjorie's room. She heard the
quiet, even breathing of an un-
troubled conscience asleep.
She was by the bedside now, very
deliberate and calm. She acted
swiftly. Bending over she found
one of the braids of Marjorie's hair,
followed it up with her hand to
the point nearest the head, and then
holding it a little slack so that
the sleeper would feel no pull, she
reached down with the shears and
severed it. With the pigtail in
her hand she held her breath. Marjorie
had muttered something in
her sleep. Bernice deftly
amputated the other braid, paused for an
instant, and then flitted swiftly
and silently back to her own room.
Down-stairs she opened the big
front door, closed it carefully be-
hind her, and feeling oddly happy
and exuberant stepped off the
porch into the moonlight,
swinging her heavy grip like a shopping-
bag. After a minute's brisk walk
she discovered that her left hand
still held the two blond braids.
She laughed unexpectedly had to
shut her mouth hard to keep from
emitting an absolute peal. She was
passing Warren's house now, and
on the impulse she set down her
baggage, and swinging the braids
like pieces of rope flung them at
the wooden porch, where they
landed with a slight thud. She laughed
again, no longer restraining
herself.
"Huh!" she giggled
wildly. "Scalp the selfish thing!"
Then picking up her suitcase she set
off at a half-run down the
moonlit street.