inside the hall, she picked up her skirts and fairly flew up the stairs to
her room. Slamming the door shut, she locked it, then sank on the edge of
the bed and laughed--laughed until she wiped the tears from her cheeks,
rocking back and forth and hugging herself in an ecstasy. Every few moments
she would pull up; then some unconsidered enormity would strike her afresh
and she would go off into another paroxysm. After a while, much relieved,
she wiped her eyes and arose.

"This place will be the death of me yet," she told her distorted image in
the mirror.

She rummaged in one of her trunks, produced writing materials, and started
a letter to an Eastern friend. This occupied her fully for two hours. At
that period it was customary to "indite epistles" with a "literary
flavour," a practice that immensely tickled those who did the inditing. Nan
became wholly interested and quite pleased with herself. Her first
impressions, she found when she came to write them down, were stimulating
and interesting. She was full of enthusiasm; but had she been capable of a
real analysis she would have found it quite different from Keith's
enthusiasm. She looked on this strange, uncouth, vital city from the
outside, from the superior standpoint. She appreciated it as she would have
appreciated the "quaintness" of the villagers in some foreign town.

About noon Keith returned.

"I've looked into every possibility," he told her. "Honest, Nan, I don't
see exactly what we are to do unless we build for ourselves. That Boyle
house is the only house in town for rent--that is of any size and in a
respectable quarter. You see they are too new out here to have built houses
for rent yet; and if you find any vacant at all, it is sheer good fortune.