October. For Grover October was a more stimulating month than May, his nature being one that responded more gladly to the prospect of resurrection than to the process itself. For him, what had already happened was more exciting than what was happening; and most exciting of all were the lovely vague things that might happen. Never had he gone to bed without the feeling that perhaps It,—the important and determining event, the key experience,—would occur on the morrow. He was twenty-two, and no It worthy the name had yet occurred. Three-score-and-ten minus twenty-two. You couldn't do it in your head.
His companion wasn't saddened by May, not she! in her straight blue suit and trim shoes and jaunty hat. No hypocritical fur neck-piece; no handbag,—good old Rhoda, she used her pockets. "It ought to be warm enough to swim by next week." That expressed the effect upon sensible Miss Marple of the weather's melancholy benevolence.
In Grover's ears sad but sprightly tunes were running: bits for the cello from Debussy's Rondes de Printemps. He kept wishing that Boston were Paris. In two months time, D. V., it would be.
As they crossed Beacon Street he reached back into his mind for the subject they had been discussing. Ah yes, old maids. Rhoda had informed him that her Aunty Pearn was a stuffy one, and as he had rather a penchant for them, even when stuffy, he felt quite kindly disposed towards the present expedition to
