Reba was not without misgivings on the night before her wedding day. She wished that there was some one to whom she might go in secret and consult. Her marriage was taking on significancies that were making her apprehensive. But she didn't know how to confide in any human being. Only in prayer had she ever poured out her heart's doubts, fears, hopes and aspirations—and even then she had done so with caution.
She shrunk from mentioning even her departure until her dismantled room, the necessity of checking her trunk, and paying her bills forced an explanation. There would be sure to be questions. In her reluctance, rather than to confess to the adored Miss Park that she had been summoned back to that vague place whence she had come, Reba preferred on the third shopping-tour with her, which took place shortly after Aunt Augusta's vital visit, to make numberless useless purchases—silver-gray shoes and stockings, silver-gray gloves, a small silver-gray feather boa, all to match the silver-gray costume—jacket and gown, nearing completion now—made of soft, lavenderish gray silk, the gown daringly draped and looped over her hips, with generous bunches of it held here and there by Frenchy little bouquets of artificial heliotrope and pink rosebuds—a costume, alas, which she must hide and lay away now. She could never wear it in Ridgefield, to be discussed and talked about and head-wagged over.
Reba didn't tell any one, even Mamie, that she was going home until the very day before she went. Even then she remarked it briefly, saying it was only for a week or two. She referred to it to Miss Park for the first time on Friday, during her last noon hour of
