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John William Tuohy lives in Washington DC

BERNICE BOBS HER HAIR, a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald



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.