waves; her barriers against the world were down. He was here, in this same city with her
She bought a coffee ring on a lace-paper mat, a halo for a German baby angel. Then to the florist's for yellow primroses, lots of little bunches, white lilac, lilies of the valley stiff with freshness, cool pointed pale-yellow tulips like spring sunlight. The box was so big she had to take a taxi, and leave it shuddering in front of the door while she went up and borrowed sixty cents from Clara. She had spent her last penny on the flowers.
From the dining room came Nevin's "Narcissus," accompanying a firm voice barking, "One—two—one—two—up—down—up—down—right—left—right—left—higher—two" On the floor in front of the gramophone, in a chemise, and with good imitation pearls, a little too big, in her ears, Mrs. Thorne lay on her back, lifting her legs in the air.
She greeted her daughter plaintively, rolling her eyes.
"Evelyn! What on earth have you been doing out so early?"
"I've got a beau coming to tea, and I had to get some things."
Do people ever die of happiness? she thought, going into the pantry with her flowers. And she suddenly hugged herself, spinning around on her heel. Oh, Joe—! In the kitchen Clara was moaning a song:
