really a very timid interest. But the effect of it was as good for the growth of her soul as the breaking-up and working-over of caked earth around the roots of a growing plant.
In spite of the fact that nature had finished with Reba's stature, contour, and features long since, still some sort of late loveliness bloomed upon her during that first fall of hers in Boston.
"Like green apples, picked and put down in a dark cellar before they're ripe," said Katherine Park to Louise Bartholomew one day. "Take them out in December and leave them in the sun a little while and they'll mellow up."
Whether it was the effect of the gymnasium classes, or the swimming lessons, or the dancing, or all three together, there developed in Reba a certain ease and grace of motion that had been lacking from the restrained, self-conscious carriage of a year ago. The same trace of freedom, too, became obvious, though less so, in her speech and manner.
Her clothes more than anything showed defiance of the old subjection. Not that they became bold or surprising. They didn't, happily. They suited the retiring nature of her temperament perfectly. This was not the result of any innate sense of harmony in Reba. It was simply because she lacked sufficient self-confidence to rely upon her own judgment. She shrank from approaching the sophisticated clerks in the shops, and feared that this late craving of hers for pretty things might lead her into making ridiculous selections, which it probably would have done. So instead she put herself into the hands of a single expert and trusted herself implicitly to her, scarcely
