IT is a quiet deep of night. A bell has just tolled two.
I am clothed in cool bedroom negligées and a softening sweetness of cold cream, from head to foot.
I am tranquil for to-day I had a walk that made me feel Sincere and Safe.
It is a comforting feeling: it is like a beef-sandwich.
It was a long walk south-east of Butte along an outskirting road where I used often to walk when I was sixteen—a broad gray desert. It was the same sand and barrenness. It was bare and withered as if a giant coyote had picked its rocky ribs.
The day was windy and dusty. The sunshine was thick and sweet and heavy like floating honey. The dust that blew against the white of my neck was like ground glass.
My feet ached as I walked.
My shoes were Cuban-heeled thick-soled pumps of corded silk, a kind easy to walk in. But the same feet which once readily bore me seven miles along that road ache now at three. All of me ached as I walked along. I cursed desultorily with a smooth whispered flow of curses, because the circumstances seemed to demand it. But I loved the walk—even
