mine
has made me prefer a good deal of solitude in my hours at home.

The faint, tenacious yet volatile perfume drifted to my nostrils, as I
held the braid. Who could the woman be who brought that costly fragrance
into a deserted farmhouse? For so exquisite and unique a fragrance could
only be the work of a master perfumer. There was youth in that vigorous
hair, coquetry in the individual perfume, panic in her useless sacrifice
of the braid I held; yet strangest self-possession in the telling of
that fanciful tale of sorcery to me.

On that tale, told dramatically in the dark, I had next morning blamed
the weird waking nightmare that I had suffered after her visit. The
horror of the night could not endure the strong sun and wind of the
March morning that followed. Like _Scrooge_, I analyzed my ghost as a
bit of undigested beef or a blot of mustard. Certainly the thing had
been actual enough while it lasted, but my reason had thrust it away.
That was over, I reflected, as I laid the braid back in the drawer. But
surely the lady was not vanished like the nightmare? Surely I should
find her in some neighbor's daughter, when my house was finished and I
went there for the summer? She could not hide from me, with that bright
web about her head whose twin web I held.

It had grown so late that I had to take a taxicab to the Terminal, just
halting at a shop long enough to buy a box of the chocolates my cousin
preferred. But when I reached the great station and found my way through
the swirl of travelers to the track where Phil's train should come in, I
was told the express had been delayed.

"Probably half an hour late," the gateman informed me. "Maybe more! Of
course, though, she may pull in any time."

Which meant no tea for Phillida; instead, a rush across town to the
Pennsylvania station to catch the train for her home. As I could not
leave my post lest she arrive in my absence, it also meant nothing to
eat for me until we reached Aunt Caroline's hospitality; which was cool
and restrained rather than festive.

I foresaw the heavy atmosphere that would brood over all like a cold
fog, this evening of Phil's disgraceful return from the scholastic
arena. Ascertaining from the gateman that the erring train was certain
not to pull in during the next ten minutes, I sought a telephone booth.

"Aunt Caroline, Phil's train is going to be very late, possibly an hour
late," I misinformed my kinswoman, when her voice answered me