dead of _her_ favor!

I jumped to my feet--I was half mad with fear and sex and sorrow and
excitement. Something in my brain snapped. And I struck Gordon--struck
him across the face with my open hand. And he turned as white as the
dead Dolly Leonard, and went away--oh, very far away.

Then I ran back alone to the hall and stumbled into my father's arms.

"Are you having a good time?" asked my father, pointing playfully at my
blazing cheeks.

I went to my answer like an arrow to its mark. "I am having the most
wonderful time in the world," I cried; "_I have settled with man_."

My father put back his head and shouted. He thought it was a fine joke.
He laughed about it long after my party was over. He thought my head was
turned. He laughed about it long after other people had stopped
wondering why Gordon went away.

I never told any one why Gordon went away. I might under certain
circumstances have told a girl, but it was not the sort of thing one
could have told one's mother. This is the first time I have ever told
the story of Dolly Leonard's death and my _debutante_ party.

Dolly Leonard left a little son behind her--a joyous, rollicking little
son. His name is Paul Yardley. We girls were pleased with the
initials--P.Y. They stand to us for "Perfect Year."

Dolly Leonard's husband has married again, and his wife has borne him
safely three daughters and a son. Each one of my six girl chums is the
mother of a family. Now and again in my experience some woman has
shirked a duty. But I have never yet met a woman who dared to shirk a
happiness. Duties repeat themselves. There is no duplicate of happiness.

I am fifty-eight years old. I have never married. I do not say whether I
am glad or sorry. I only know that I have never had a Perfect Year. I
only know that I have never been warm since the night that Dolly Leonard
died.

Editha

BY WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS

The air was thick with the war I feeling, like the electricity of a
storm which has not yet burst. Editha sat looking out into the hot
spring afternoon, with her lips parted, and panting with the intensity
of the question whether she could let him go. She had decided that she
could not let him stay, when she saw him at the end of the still
leafless avenue, making slowly up toward the house, with his head down,
and his figure relaxed. She ran impatiently out on the veranda, to the
edge of the steps, and imperatively demanded greater haste of him with