ing close beside Reba on their way to the shopping district, there was a clean, washed look. It was a day to dispel doubts and fears of whatever nature, and as Reba hurried along that Saturday morning on her way to meet the man she was to marry, she, too, felt shining underneath the long black dust-coat.
She slipped the disguising thing off when she reached the edge of the Public Gardens, and hung it over her arm, appearing suddenly as fresh and bright as the radiant flowers in the formal flower-beds. People turned to gaze at her.
She had no idea how transformed she was. She had been able to see herself in her wedding clothes only in sections. Standing on a chair in front of her high chiffonier, she had caught a glimpse of her gray-shod feet. On the floor, tipping the mirror well forward, she had surveyed somewhat doubtfully the amazing panniers over her hips. And finally, with the mirror straightened, had caught the pouter-pigeon effect of the little short gray boa hugging the back of her neck, and the small hat tipped forward at the angle the clerk in the shop had placed it.
All the confidence with which earlier in the morning Nathan had set forth in his new blue serge, red tie, and stiff black hat, deserted him completely at sight of the modish young lady whom he spied a long way off coming to meet him. Uneducated as he was in woman's fashions, still he was acutely aware of the smartness, the loveliness too, of Reba's costume. He gazed at her in dumb admiration for a second or two.
All he said finally was, "The flowers aren't good enough," and he passed her a florist's box.
