nd in some way he seems to
me to be taking on more definite form. I should not be surprised if I
were to recognize him the first time I met him face to face.

Linda looked through the skylight and cried out to the stars: "Good
heavens! Have I copied Peter too closely?"

She sat thinking a minute and then she decided she had not.

And in this connection you will want to know how I am progressing in
my friendship with the junior partner, and what kind of motorist I am
making. I am still driving twice a week, and lately on Sundays in a
larger car, taking Dana and a newspaper friend of hers along. I think I
have driven every hazard that this part of California affords except the
mountains; Mr. Snow is still merciful about them.

Linda dear, I know what you're dying to know. You want to know whether
Mr. Snow is in the same depths of mourning as when our acquaintance
first began. This, my dear child, is very reprehensible of you. Young
girls with braids down their backs--and by the way, Linda, you did not
tell me what happened "after the ball was over." Did you go to school
the next morning with braids down your back, or wearing your coronet?
Because on that depends what I have to say to you now; if you went with
braids, you're still my little girl chum, the cleanest, finest kid I
have ever known; but if you wore your coronet, then you're a woman and
my equal and my dearest friend, far dearer than Dana even; and I tell
you this, Linda, because I want you always to understand that you come
first.

I have tried and tried to visualize you, and can't satisfy my mind as to
whether the braids are up or down. Going on the assumption that they are
up, and that life may in the near future begin to hold some interesting
experiences for you, I will tell you this, beloved child: I don't think
Mr. Snow is mourning quite so deeply as he was. I have not been asked,
the last four or five trips we have been on, to carry an armload
of exquisite flowers to the shrine of a departed love. I have been
privileged to take them home and arrange them in my room and Dana's. And
I haven't heard so much talk about loneliness, and I haven't seen such
tired, sad eyes. It seems to me that a familiar pair of shoulders
are squaring up to the world again, and a very kind pair of eyes are
brighter with interest. I don't know how you feel about this; I don't
know how I feel about it myself. I am sure that Eugene Snow is a man
who, in the years to come, woul