IV

On the following Wednesday evening there was a dinner-dance at

the country club. When the guests strolled in Bernice found her

place-card with a slight feeling of irritation. Though at her

right sat G. Reece Stoddard, a most desirable and distinguished

young bachelor, the all-important left held only Charley Paulson.

Charley lacked height, beauty, and social shrewdness, and in her

new enlightenment Bernice decided that his only qualification to

be her partner was that he had never been stuck with her. But

this feeling of irritation left with the last of the soup-plates,

and Marjorie's specific instruction came to her. Swallowing her

pride she turned to Charley Paulson and plunged.

"Do you think I ought to bob my hair, Mr. Charley Paulson?"

Charley looked up in surprise.

"Why?"

"Because I'm considering it. It's such a sure and easy way of

attracting attention."

Charley smiled pleasantly. He could not know this had been

rehearsed. He replied that he didn't know much about bobbed hair.

But Bernice was there to tell him.

"I want to be a society vampire, you see," she announced coolly,

and went on to inform him that bobbed hair was the necessary

prelude. She added that she wanted to ask his advice, because she

had heard he was so critical about girls.

Charley, who knew as much about the psychology of women as he did

of the mental states of Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguely

flattered.

"So I've decided," she continued, her voice rising slightly,

"that early next week I'm going down to the Sevier Hotel

barber-shop, sit in the first chair, and get my hair bobbed." She

faltered noticing that the people near her had paused in their

conversation and were listening; but after a confused second

Marjorie's coaching told, and she finished her paragraph to the

vicinity at large. "Of course I'm charging admission, but if

you'll all come down and encourage me I'll issue passes for the

inside seats."

There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, and under cover of

it G. Reece Stoddard leaned over quickly and said close to her

ear: "I'll take a box right now."

She met his eyes and smiled as if he had said something

surprisingly brilliant.

"Do you believe in bobbed hair?" asked G. Reece in the same

undertone.

"I think it's unmoral," affirmed Bernice gravely. "But, of

course, you've either got to amuse people or feed 'em or shock

'em." Marjorie had culled this from Oscar Wilde. It was greeted

with a ripple of laughter from the men and a series of quick,

intent looks from the girls. And then as though she had said

nothing of wit or moment Bernice turned again to Charley and

spoke confidentially in his ear.

"I want to ask you your opinion of several people. I imagine

you're a wonderful judge of character."

Charley thrilled faintly--paid her a subtle compliment by

overturning her water.

Two hours later, while Warren McIntyre was standing passively in

the stag line abstractedly watching the dancers and wondering

whither and with whom Marjorie had disappeared, an unrelated

perception began to creep slowly upon him--a perception that

Bernice, cousin to Marjorie, had been cut in on several times in

the past five minutes. He closed his eyes, opened them and looked

again. Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visiting

boy, a matter easily accounted for; a visiting boy would know no

better. But now she was dancing with some one else, and there

was Charley Paulson headed for her with enthusiastic

determination in his eye. Funny--Charley seldom danced with more

than three girls an evening.

Warren was distinctly surprised when--the exchange having been

effected--the man relieved proved to be none ether than G. Reece

Stoddard himself. And G. Reece seemed not at all jubilant at

being relieved. Next time Bernice danced near, Warren regarded

her intently. Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty; and

to-night her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look that

no woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfully

counterfeit--she looked as if she were having a good time. He

liked the way she had her hair arranged, wondered if it was

brilliantine that made it glisten so. And that dress was

becoming--a dark red that set off her shadowy eyes and high

coloring. He remembered that he had thought her pretty when she

first came to town, before he had realized that she was dull. Too

bad she was dull--dull girls unbearable--certainly pretty

though.

His thoughts zigzagged back to Marjorie. This disappearance would

be like other disappearances. When she reappeared he would

demand where she had been--would be told emphatically that it was

none of his business. What a pity she was so sure of him! She

basked in the knowledge that no other girl in town interested

him; she defied him to fall in love with Genevieve or

Roberta.

Warren sighed. The way to Marjorie's affections was a labyrinth

indeed. He looked up. Bernice was again dancing with the visiting

boy. Half unconsciously he took a step out from the stag line in

her direction, and hesitated. Then he said to himself that it

was charity. He walked toward her--collided suddenly with G.

Reece Stoddard.

"Pardon me," said Warren.

But G. Reece had not stopped to apologize. He had again cut in on

Bernice.

That night at one o'clock Marjorie, with one hand on the

electric-light switch in the hall, turned to take a last look at

Bernice's sparkling eyes.

"So it worked?"

"Oh, Marjorie, yes!" cried Bernice.

"I saw you were having a gay time."

"I did! The only trouble was that about midnight I ran short of

talk. I had to repeat myself--with different men of course. I

hope they won't compare notes."

"Men don't," said Marjorie, yawning, "and it wouldn't matter if

they did--they'd think you were even trickier."

She snapped out the light, and as they started up the stairs

Bernice grasped the banister thankfully. For the first time in

her life she had been danced tired.

"You see," said Marjorie it the top of the stairs, "one man sees

another man cut in and he thinks there must be something there.

Well, we'll fix up some new stuff to-morrow. Good night."

"Good night."

As Bernice took down her hair she passed the evening before her

in review. She had followed instructions exactly. Even when

Charley Paulson cut in for the eighth time she had simulated

delight and had apparently been both interested and flattered.

She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire or automobiles

or her school, but had confined her conversation to me, you, and

us.

But a few minutes before she fell asleep a rebellious thought was

churning drowsily in her brain--after all, it was she who had

done it. Marjorie, to be sure, had given her her conversation,

but then Marjorie got much of her conversation out of things she

read. Bernice had bought the red dress, though she had never

valued it highly before Marjorie dug it out of her trunk--and her

own voice had said the words, her own lips had smiled, her own

feet had danced. Marjorie nice girl--vain, though--nice

evening--nice boys--like Warren--Warren--Warren--what's his

name--Warren---

She fell asleep.

V

To Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling that

people really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her came

the foundation of self-confidence. Of course there were numerous

mistakes at first. She did not know, for instance, that

Draycott Deyo was studying for the ministry; she was unaware that

he had cut in on her because he thought she was a quiet,

reserved girl. Had she known these things she would not have

treated him to the line which began "Hello, Shell Shock!" and

continued with the bathtub story--"It takes a frightful lot of

energy to fix my hair in the summer--there's so much of it--so I

always fix it first and powder my face and put on my hat; then I

get into the bathtub, and dress afterward. Don't you think that's

the best plan?"

Though Draycott Deyo was in the throes of difficulties concerning

baptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection,

it must be admitted that he did not. He considered feminine

bathing an immoral subject, and gave her some of his ideas on the

depravity of modern society.

But to offset that unfortunate occurrence Bernice had several

signal successes to her credit. Little Otis Ormonde pleaded off

from a trip East and elected instead to follow her with a

puppylike devotion, to the amusement of his crowd and to the

irritation of G. Reece Stoddard, several of whose afternoon calls

Otis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of the

glances he bent on Bernice. He even told her the story of the

two-by-four and the dressing-room to show her how frightfully

mistaken he and every one else had been in their first judgment

of her. Bernice laughed off that incident with a slight sinking

sensation.

Of all Bernice's conversation perhaps the best known and most

universally approved was the line about the bobbing of her hair.

"Oh, Bernice, when you goin' to get the hair bobbed?"

"Day after to-morrow maybe," she would reply, laughing. "Will you

come and see me? Because I'm counting on you, you know."

"Will we? You know! But you better hurry up."

Bernice, whose tonsorial intentions were strictly dishonorable,

would laugh again.

"Pretty soon now. You'd be surprised."

But perhaps the most significant symbol of her success was the

gray car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre, parked daily in

front of the Harvey house. At first the parlor-maid was

distinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead of

Marjorie; after a week of it she told the cook that Miss Bernice

had gotta holda Miss Marjorie's best fella.

And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren's desire to

rouse jealousy in Marjorie; perhaps it was the familiar though

unrecognized strain of Marjorie in Bernice's conversation;

perhaps it was both of these and something of sincere attraction

besides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knew

within a week that Marjorie's most reliable beau had made an

amazing face-about and was giving an indisputable rush to

Marjorie's guest. The question of the moment was how Marjorie

would take it. Warren called Bernice on the 'phone twice a day,

sent her notes, and they were frequently seen together in his

roadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significant

conversations as to whether or not he was sincere.

Marjorie on being twitted only laughed. She said she was mighty

glad that Warren had at last found some one who appreciated him.

So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn't

care and let it go at that.

One afternoon when there were only three days left of her visit

Bernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she was

going to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, and

when Marjorie--also bound for the party--appeared beside her and

began casually to adjust her hat in the mirror, Bernice was

utterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash.

Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in three

sentences.

"You may as well get Warren out of your head," she said coldly.

"What?" Bernice was utterly astounded.

"You may as well stop making a fool of yourself over Warren

McIntyre. He doesn't care a snap of his fingers about you."

For a tense moment they regarded each other--Marjorie scornful,

aloof; Bernice astounded, half-angry, half-afraid. Then two cars

drove up in front of the house and there was a riotous honking.

Both of them gasped faintly, turned, and side by side hurried

out.

All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master a

rising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the sphinx of

sphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in the

world she had stolen Marjorie's property. She felt suddenly and

horribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in an

informal circle and the conversation became general, the storm

gradually broke. Little Otis Ormonde inadvertently precipitated

it.

"When you going back to kindergarten, Otis?" some one had asked.

"Me? Day Bernice gets her hair bobbed."

"Then your education's over," said Marjorie quickly. "That's only

a bluff of hers. I should think you'd have realized."

"That a fact?" demanded Otis, giving Bernice a reproachful

glance.

Bernice's ears burned as she tried to think up an effectual

come-back. In the face of this direct attack her imagination was

paralyzed.

"There's a lot of bluffs in the world," continued Marjorie quite

pleasantly. "I should think you'd be young enough to know that,

Otis."

"Well," said Otis, "maybe so. But gee! With a line like

Bernice's---"

"Really?" yawned Marjorie. "What's her latest bon mot?"

No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with her

muse's beau, had said nothing memorable of late.

"Was that really all a line?" asked Roberta curiously.

Bernice hesitated. She felt that wit in some form was demanded of

her, but under her cousin's suddenly frigid eyes she was

completely incapacitated.

"I don't know," she stalled.

"Splush!" said Marjorie. "Admit it!"

Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had been

tinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly.

"Oh, I don't know!" she repeated steadily. Her cheeks were

glowing.

"Splush!" remarked Marjorie again.

"Come through, Bernice," urged Otis. "Tell her where to get off."

Bernice looked round again--she seemed unable to get away from

Warren's eyes.

"I like bobbed hair," she said hurriedly, as if he had asked her

a question, "and I intend to bob mine."

"When?" demanded Marjorie.

"Any time."

"No time like the present," suggested Roberta.

Otis jumped to his feet.

"Good stuff!" he cried. "We'll have a summer bobbing party.

Sevier Hotel barber-shop, I think you said."

In an instant all were on their feet. Bernice's heart throbbed

violently.

"What?" she gasped.

Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear and

contemptuous.

"Don't worry--she'll back out!"

"Come on, Bernice!" cried Otis, starting toward the door.

Four eyes--Warren's and Marjorie's--stared at her, challenged

her, defied her. For another second she wavered wildly.

"All right," she said swiftly "I don't care if I do."

An eternity of minutes later, riding down-town through the late

afternoon beside Warren, the others following in Roberta's car

close behind, Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinette

bound for the guillotine in a tumbrel. Vaguely she wondered why

she did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all she

could do to keep from clutching her hair with both bands to

protect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither.

Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was the

test supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walk

unchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.

Warren was moodily silent, and when they came to the hotel he

drew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to precede him out.

Roberta's car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, which

presented two bold plate-glass windows to the street.

Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign, Sevier

Barber-Shop. It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was the

first barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking a

cigarette, leaned nonchalantly against the first chair. He must

have heard of her; he must have been waiting all week, smoking

eternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too-often-mentioned

first chair. Would they blind-fold her? No, but they would tie a

white cloth round her neck lest any of her blood--nonsense--hair--should

get on her clothes.

"All right, Bernice," said Warren quickly.

With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed open

the swinging screen-door, and giving not a glance to the

uproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went up

to the fat barber.

"I want you to bob my hair."

The first barber's mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarette

dropped to the floor.

"Huh?"

"My hair--bob it!"

Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. A

man in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her a

glance, half lather, half amazement. One barber started and

spoiled little Willy Schuneman's monthly haircut. Mr. O'Reilly in

the last chair grunted and swore musically in ancient Gaelic as

a razor bit into his cheek. Two bootblacks became wide-eyed and

rushed for her feet. No, Bernice didn't care for a shine.

Outside a passer-by stopped and stared; a couple joined him; half

a dozen small boys' nose sprang into life, flattened against the

glass; and snatches of conversation borne on the summer breeze

drifted in through the screen-door.

"Lookada long hair on a kid!"

"Where'd yuh get 'at stuff? 'At's a bearded lady he just finished

shavin'."

But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sense

told her that this man in the white coat had removed one

tortoise-shell comb and then another; that his fingers were

fumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins; that this hair, this

wonderful hair of hers, was going--she would never again feel its

long voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark-brown glory down her

back. For a second she was near breaking down, and then the

picture before her swam mechanically into her vision--Marjorie's

mouth curling in a faint ironic smile as if to say:

"Give up and get down! You tried to buck me and I called your

bluff. You see you haven't got a prayer."

And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clinched her

hands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing of

her eyes that Marjorie remarked on to some one long afterward.

Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face the

mirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage that

had been wrought. Her hair was not curls and now it lay in lank

lifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It was

ugly as sin--she had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face's

chief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was gone

and she was--well frightfully mediocre--not stagy; only

ridiculous, like a Greenwich Villager who had left her spectacles

at home.

As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile--failed

miserably. She saw two of the girls exchange glances; noticed

Marjorie's mouth curved in attenuated mockery--and that Warren's

eyes were suddenly very cold.

"You see,"--her words fell into an awkward pause--"I've done it."

"Yes, you've--done it," admitted Warren.

"Do you like it?"

There was a half-hearted "Sure" from two or three voices, another

awkward pause, and then Marjorie turned swiftly and with

serpentlike intensity to Warren.

"Would you mind running me down to the cleaners?" she asked.

"I've simply got to get a dress there before supper. Roberta's

driving right home and she can take the others."

Warren stared abstractedly at some infinite speck out the window.

Then for an instant his eyes rested coldly on Bernice before

they turned to Marjorie.

"Be glad to," he said slowly.