February strawberries would have
been as unattainable as though she had dwelt on a desert island.

On the day of the mirror accident in Peacock Alley, Hannah was meeting
Marcia downtown for the purpose of helping her select spring outfits for
the children. Later, Marcia explained, there would be no time. Her class
met every morning except Saturday. Hannah tried to deny the little pang
of terror at the prospect of new responsibility that this latest move of
Marcia's seemed about to thrust upon her. Marcia wasn't covering her own
job, she told herself. Why take another! She had given up an afternoon
with Sarah because of this need of Marcia's to-day. Marcia depended upon
her mother's shopping judgment more than she admitted. Thinking thus,
and conscious of her tardiness (she had napped for ten minutes after
lunch) Hannah Winter had met, face to face, with a crash, this strange,
strained, rather haggard elderly woman in the mirror.

It was, then, ten minutes later than 2.07 when she finally came up to
Marcia waiting, lips compressed, at the Michigan Avenue entrance, as
planned.

"I bumped into that mirror----"

"Oh, Mom! I'm sorry. Are you hurt? How in the world?... Such a morning
... wash day ... children their lunch ... marketing ... wall paper ...
Fifty-third Street ... two o'clock ..."

Suddenly, "Yes, I know," said Hannah Winter, tartly. "I had to do all
those things and more, forty years ago."

Marcia had a list.... Let's see ... Those smocked dresses for Joan would
probably be all picked over by this time ... Light-weight underwear for
Peter ... Joan's cape ...

Hannah Winter felt herself suddenly remote from all this; done with it;
finished years and years ago. What had she to do with smocked dresses,
children's underwear, capes? But she went in and out of the shops, up
and down the aisles, automatically, gave expert opinion. By five it was
over. Hannah felt tired, depressed. She was to have dinner at Marcia's
to-night. She longed, now, for her own room. Wished she might go to it
and stay there, quietly.

"Marcia, I don't think I'll come to dinner to-night. I'm so tired. I
think I'll just go home----"

"But I got the broilers specially for you, and the sweet potatoes
candied the way you like them, and a lemon cream pie."

When they reached home they found Joan, listless, on the steps. One of
her sudden sore throats. Stomach, probably. A day in bed for her. By
to-morrow she would be quite all right. Hann