she got used to
him.

One evening--it was after two weeks of this sort of thing--as she was
sitting in her room, looking out of the window at the tops of the
trees in an adjacent yard, it struck her how much she had been seeing
him. For a moment it made her uncomfortable. What was it leading to?
Such suppositions must almost invariably come to a single woman. Ages
of tradition have left their imprint upon the sex to the effect that
single life is not an end in itself, and that somehow it needs must
change. Of course, many a spinster has gone to a satisfied grave in
complete contentment over a life of spinsterhood. But there is nothing
to prevent the question from arising, especially when there is an
attentive male hanging about unattached.

Claybrook had given no indication of any serious intentions. Now that
she had come to know him better, he seemed more like an overgrown boy
with a healthy appetite for play. There was no cause for alarm. If he
had been the kind to moon around in dark corners, wanting to sit alone
with her in long interminable silences--but on the contrary he always
wanted to go somewhere. She had met several of his friends and they
were always going somewhere, both men and women. And he always had
plenty to say, mostly about conditions in the mill, the increase in
the cost of labour, the scarcity of good lumber, some little anecdotes
about the men, drummers' tales. More like a business acquaintance he
treated her, discussing gravely the problems of her tea room and that
sort of thing. He had even begun to call her "Sister" in an odd little
patronizing way. And she had seen him every night now for the past two
weeks. She thoughtfully ran her hand across her mouth. That was too
much speed. She would have to slow down.

The graying light deepened and the chequered wavering of the boughs
beneath her was slowly swallowed up in shadow so that the depth seemed
interminable. A screen door slammed and there was the clatter of a pan
on a brick pavement and the drawl of a soft Negro voice somewhere
below. The help was going home. And then silence descending with only
the quiet rustling of leaves and the distant clang and clatter of the
city. She felt suddenly very much alone; and she wondered what her
aunt Susie might be doing at this instant. Sitting alone in the ell
sitting room, knitting, perhaps, with old Landy pottering about in the
kitchen or on the back steps, with some fishing tackle or an odd bit