Bernice Bobs Her Hair

by F. Scott Fitzgerald

　　After dark on Saturday night one could stand on the first tee ofthe golf-course and see the country-club windows as a yellowexpanse over a very black and wavy ocean. The waves of thisocean, so to speak, were the heads of many curious caddies, a fewof the more ingenious chauffeurs, the golf professional's deafsister--and there were usually several stray, diffident waves whomight have rolled inside had they so desired. This was thegallery.The balcony was inside. It consisted of the circle of wickerchairs that lined the wall of the combination clubroom andballroom. At these Saturday-night dances it was largely feminine;a great babel of middle-aged ladies with sharp eyes and icyhearts behind lorgnettes and large bosoms. The main function ofthe balcony was critical, it occasionally showed grudgingadmiration, but never approval, for it is well known among ladiesover thirty-five that when the younger set dance in thesummer-time it is with the very worst intentions in the world,and if they are not bombarded with stony eyes stray couples willdance weird barbaric interludes in the corners, and the morepopular, more dangerous, girls will sometimes be kissed in theparked limousines of unsuspecting dowagers.But, after all, this critical circle is not close enough to thestage to see the actors' faces and catch the subtler byplay. Itcan only frown and lean, ask questions and make satisfactorydeductions from its set of postulates, such as the one whichstates that every young man with a large income leads the life ofa hunted partridge. It never really appreciates the drama of theshifting, semi-cruel world of adolescence. No; boxes,orchestra-circle, principals, and chorus be represented by themedley of faces and voices that sway to the plaintive Africanrhythm of Dyer's dance orchestra.From sixteen-year-old Otis Ormonde, who has two more years atHill School, to G. Reece Stoddard, over whose bureau at homehangs a Harvard law diploma; from little Madeleine Hogue, whosehair still feels strange and uncomfortable on top of her head, toBessie MacRae, who has been the life of the party a little toolong--more than ten years--the medley is not only the centre ofthe stage but contains the only people capable of getting anunobstructed view of it.With a flourish and a bang the music stops. The couples exchangeartificial, effortless smiles, facetiously repeat "LA-de-DA-DAdum-DUM," and then the clatter of young feminine voices soarsover the burst of clapping.A few disappointed stags caught in midfloor as they bad beenabout to cut in subsided listlessly back to the walls, becausethis was not like the riotous Christmas dances--these summerhops were considered just pleasantly warm and exciting, whereeven the younger marrieds rose and performed ancient waltzes andterrifying fox trots to the tolerant amusement of their youngerbrothers and sisters.Warren McIntyre, who casually attended Yale, being one of theunfortunate stags, felt in his dinner-coat pocket for a cigaretteand strolled out onto the wide, semidark veranda, where coupleswere scattered at tables, filling the lantern-hung night withvague words and hazy laughter. He nodded here and there at theless absorbed and as he passed each couple some half-forgottenfragment of a story played in his mind, for it was not a largecity and every one was Who's Who to every one else's past. There,for example, were Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest, who had beenprivately engaged for three years. Every one knew that as soon asJim managed to hold a job for more than two months she wouldmarry him. Yet how bored they both looked, and how wearily Ethelregarded Jim sometimes, as if she wondered why she had trainedthe vines of her affection on such a wind-shaken poplar.Warren was nineteen and rather pitying with those of his friendswho hadn't gone East to college. But, like most boys, he braggedtremendously about the girls of his city when he was away fromit. There was Genevieve Ormonde, who regularly made the rounds ofdances, house-parties, and football games at Princeton, Yale,Williams, and Cornell; there was black-eyed Roberta Dillon, whowas quite as famous to her own generation as Hiram Johnson or TyCobb; and, of course, there was Marjorie Harvey, who besideshaving a fairylike face and a dazzling, bewildering tongue wasalready justly celebrated for having turned five cart-wheels insuccession during the last pump-and-slipper dance at New Haven.Warren, who had grown up across the street from Marjorie, hadlong been "crazy about her." Sometimes she seemed to reciprocatehis feeling with a faint gratitude, but she had tried him by herinfallible test and informed him gravely that she did not lovehim. Her test was that when she was away from him she forgot himand had affairs with other boys. Warren found this discouraging,especially as Marjorie had been making little trips all summer,and for the first two or three days after each arrival home hesaw great heaps of mail on the Harveys' hall table addressed toher in various masculine handwritings. To make matters worse, allduring the month of August she had been visited by her cousinBernice from Eau Claire, and it seemed impossible to see heralone. It was always necessary to hunt round and find some one totake care of Bernice. As August waned this was becoming more andmore difficult.Much as Warren worshipped Marjorie he had to admit that CousinBernice was sorta dopeless. She was pretty, with dark hair andhigh color, but she was no fun on a party. Every Saturday nighthe danced a long arduous duty dance with her to please Marjorie,but he had never been anything but bored in her company."Warren"---a soft voice at his elbow broke in upon his thoughts,and he turned to see Marjorie, flushed and radiant as usual. Shelaid a hand on his shoulder and a glow settled almostimperceptibly over him."Warren," she whispered "do something for me--dance with Bernice.She's been stuck with little Otis Ormonde for almost anhour."Warren's glow faded."Why--sure," he answered half-heartedly."You don't mind, do you? I'll see that you don't get stuck.""'Sall right."Marjorie smiled--that smile that was thanks enough."You're an angel, and I'm obliged loads."With a sigh the angel glanced round the veranda, but Bernice andOtis were not in sight. He wandered back inside, and there infront of the women's dressing-room he found Otis in the centre ofa group of young men who were convulsed with laughter. Otis wasbrandishing a piece of timber he had picked up, and discoursingvolubly."She's gone in to fix her hair," he announced wildly. "I'mwaiting to dance another hour with her."Their laughter was renewed."Why don't some of you cut in?" cried Otis resentfully. "Shelikes more variety.""Why, Otis," suggested a friend "you've just barely got used toher.""Why the two-by-four, Otis?" inquired Warren, smiling."The two-by-four? Oh, this? This is a club. When she comes outI'll hit her on the head and knock her in again."Warren collapsed on a settee and howled with glee."Never mind, Otis," he articulated finally. "I'm relieving youthis time."Otis simulated a sudden fainting attack and handed the stick toWarren."If you need it, old man," he said hoarsely.No matter how beautiful or brilliant a girl may be, thereputation of not being frequently cut in on makes her positionat a dance unfortunate. Perhaps boys prefer her company to thatof the butterflies with whom they dance a dozen times an but,youth in this jazz-nourished generation is temperamentallyrestless, and the idea of fox-trotting more than one full foxtrot with the same girl is distasteful, not to say odious. Whenit comes to several dances and the intermissions between she canbe quite sure that a young man, once relieved, will never treadon her wayward toes again.Warren danced the next full dance with Bernice, and finally,thankful for the intermission, he led her to a table on theveranda. There was a moment's silence while she did unimpressivethings with her fan."It's hotter here than in Eau Claire," she said.Warren stifled a sigh and nodded. It might be for all he knew orcared. He wondered idly whether she was a poor conversationalistbecause she got no attention or got no attention because she wasa poor conversationalist."You going to be here much longer?" he asked and then turnedrather red. She might suspect his reasons for asking."Another week," she answered, and stared at him as if to lunge athis next remark when it left his lips.Warren fidgeted. Then with a sudden charitable impulse he decidedto try part of his line on her. He turned and looked at hereyes."You've got an awfully kissable mouth," he began quietly.This was a remark that he sometimes made to girls at collegeproms when they were talking in just such half dark as this.Bernice distinctly jumped. She turned an ungraceful red andbecame clumsy with her fan. No one had ever made such a remark toher before."Fresh!"---the word had slipped out before she realized it, andshe bit her lip. Too late she decided to be amused, and offeredhim a flustered smile.Warren was annoyed. Though not accustomed to have that remarktaken seriously, still it usually provoked a laugh or a paragraphof sentimental banter. And he hated to be called fresh, exceptin a joking way. His charitable impulse died and he switched thetopic."Jim Strain and Ethel Demorest sitting out as usual," hecommented.This was more in Bernice's line, but a faint regret mingled withher relief as the subject changed. Men did not talk to her aboutkissable mouths, but she knew that they talked in some such wayto other girls."Oh, yes," she said, and laughed. "I hear they've been mooningaround for years without a red penny. Isn't it silly?"Warren's disgust increased. Jim Strain was a close friend of hisbrother's, and anyway he considered it bad form to sneer atpeople for not having money. But Bernice had had no intention ofsneering. She was merely nervous.IIWhen Marjorie and Bernice reached home at half after midnightthey said good night at the top of the stairs. Though cousins,they were not intimates. As a matter of fact Marjorie had nofemale intimates--she considered girls stupid. Bernice on thecontrary all through this parent-arranged visit had rather longedto exchange those confidences flavored with giggles and tearsthat she considered an indispensable factor in all feminineintercourse. But in this respect she found Marjorie rather cold;felt somehow the same difficulty in talking to her that she hadin talking to men. Marjorie never giggled, was never frightened,seldom embarrassed, and in fact had very few of the qualitieswhich Bernice considered appropriately and blessedly feminine.As Bernice busied herself with tooth-brush and paste this nightshe wondered for the hundredth time why she never had anyattention when she was away from home. That her family were thewealthiest in Eau Claire; that her mother entertainedtremendously, gave little diners for her daughter before alldances and bought her a car of her own to drive round in, neveroccurred to her as factors in her home-town social success. Likemost girls she had been brought up on the warm milk prepared byAnnie Fellows Johnston and on novels in which the female wasbeloved because of certain mysterious womanly qualities alwaysmentioned but never displayed.Bernice felt a vague pain that she was not at present engaged inbeing popular. She did not know that had it not been forMarjorie's campaigning she would have danced the entire eveningwith one man; but she knew that even in Eau Claire other girlswith less position and less pulchritude were given a much biggerrush. She attributed this to something subtly unscrupulous inthose girls. It had never worried her, and if it had her motherwould have assured her that the other girls cheapened themselvesand that men really respected girls like Bernice.She turned out the light in her bathroom, and on an impulsedecided to go in and chat for a moment with her aunt Josephine,whose light was still on. Her soft slippers bore her noiselesslydown the carpeted hall, but hearing voices inside she stoppednear the partly openers door. Then she caught her own name, andwithout any definite intention of eavesdropping lingered--and thethread of the conversation going on inside pierced herconsciousness sharply as if it had been drawn through with aneedle."She's absolutely hopeless!" It was Marjorie's voice. "Oh, I knowwhat you're going to say! So many people have told you howpretty and sweet she is, and how she can cook! What of it? Shehas a bum time. Men don't like her.""What's a little cheap popularity?"Mrs. Harvey sounded annoyed."It's everything when you're eighteen," said Marjorieemphatically. "I've done my best. I've been polite and I've mademen dance with her, but they just won't stand being bored. When Ithink of that gorgeous coloring wasted on such a ninny, andthink what Martha Carey could do with it--oh!""There's no courtesy these days."Mrs. Harvey's voice implied that modern situations were too muchfor her. When she was a girl all young ladies who belonged tonice families had glorious times."Well," said Marjorie, "no girl can permanently bolster up alame-duck visitor, because these days it's every girl forherself. I've even tried to drop hints about clothes and things,and she's been furious--given me the funniest looks. She'ssensitive enough to know she's not getting away with much, butI'll bet she consoles herself by thinking that she's veryvirtuous and that I'm too gay and fickle and will come to a badend. All unpopular girls think that way. Sour grapes! SarahHopkins refers to Genevieve and Roberta and me as gardenia girls!I'll bet she'd give ten years of her life and her Europeaneducation to be a gardenia girl and have three or four men inlove with her and be cut in on every few feet at dances.""It seems to me," interrupted Mrs. Harvey rather wearily, "thatyou ought to be able to do something for Bernice. I know she'snot very vivacious."Marjorie groaned."Vivacious! Good grief! I've never heard her say anything to aboy except that it's hot or the floor's crowded or that she'sgoing to school in New York next year. Sometimes she asks themwhat kind of car they have and tells them the kind she has.Thrilling!"There was a short silence and then Mrs. Harvey took up herrefrain:"All I know is that other girls not half so sweet and attractiveget partners. Martha Carey, for instance, is stout and loud, andher mother is distinctly common. Roberta Dillon is so thin thisyear that she looks as though Arizona were the place for her.She's dancing herself to death.""But, mother," objected Marjorie impatiently, "Martha is cheerfuland awfully witty and an awfully slick girl, and Roberta's amarvellous dancer. She's been popular for ages!"Mrs. Harvey yawned."I think it's that crazy Indian blood in Bernice," continuedMarjorie. "Maybe she's a reversion to type. Indian women alljust sat round and never said anything.""Go to bed, you silly child," laughed Mrs. Harvey. "I wouldn'thave told you that if I'd thought you were going to remember it.And I think most of your ideas are perfectly idiotic," shefinished sleepily.There was another silence, while Marjorie considered whether ornot convincing her mother was worth the trouble. People overforty can seldom be permanently convinced of anything. Ateighteen our convictions are hills from which we look; atforty-five they are caves in which we hide.Having decided this, Marjorie said good night. When she came outinto the hall it was quite empty.IIIWhile Marjorie was breakfasting late next day Bernice came intothe room with a rather formal good morning, sat down opposite,stared intently over and slightly moistened her lips."What's on your mind?" inquired Marjorie, rather puzzled.Bernice paused before she threw her hand-grenade."I heard what you said about me to your mother last night."Marjorie was startled, but she showed only a faintly heightenedcolor and her voice was quite even when she spoke."Where were you?""In the hall. I didn't mean to listen--at first."After an involuntary look of contempt Marjorie dropped her eyesand became very interested in balancing a stray corn-flake on herfinger.""I guess I'd better go back to Eau Claire--if I'm such anuisance." Bernice's lower lip was trembling violently and shecontinued on a wavering note: "I've tried to be nice, and--andI've been first neglected and then insulted. No one ever visitedme and got such treatment."Marjorie was silent."But I'm in the way, I see. I'm a drag on you. Your friends don'tlike me." She paused, and then remembered another one of hergrievances. "Of course I was furious last week when you tried tohint to me that that dress was unbecoming. Don't you think I knowhow to dress myself?""No," murmured less than half-aloud."What?""I didn't hint anything," said Marjorie succinctly. "I said, as Iremember, that it was better to wear a becoming dress threetimes straight than to alternate it with two frights.""Do you think that was a very nice thing to say?""I wasn't trying to be nice." Then after a pause: "When do youwant to go?"Bernice drew in her breath sharply."Oh!" It was a little half-cry.Marjorie looked up in surprise."Didn't you say you were going?""Yes, but---""Oh, you were only bluffing!"They stared at each other across the breakfast-table for amoment. Misty waves were passing before Bernice's eyes, whileMarjorie's face wore that rather hard expression that she usedwhen slightly intoxicated undergraduate's were making love toher."So you were bluffing," she repeated as if it were what she mighthave expected.Bernice admitted it by bursting into tears. Marjorie's eyesshowed boredom."You're my cousin," sobbed Bernice. "I'm v-v-visiting you. I wasto stay a month, and if I go home my mother will know and she'llwah-wonder---"Marjorie waited until the shower of broken words collapsed intolittle sniffles."I'll give you my month's allowance," she said coldly, "and youcan spend this last week anywhere you want. There's a very nicehotel---"Bernice's sobs rose to a flute note, and rising of a sudden shefled from the room.An hour later, while Marjorie was in the library absorbed incomposing one of those non-committal marvelously elusive lettersthat only a young girl can write, Bernice reappeared, veryred-eyed, and consciously calm. She cast no glance at Marjoriebut took a book at random from the shelf and sat down as if toread. Marjorie seemed absorbed in her letter and continuedwriting. When the clock showed noon Bernice closed her book witha snap."I suppose I'd better get my railroad ticket."This was not the beginning of the speech she had rehearsedup-stairs, but as Marjorie was not getting her cues--wasn'turging her to be reasonable; it's an a mistake--it was the bestopening she could muster."Just wait till I finish this letter," said Marjorie withoutlooking round. "I want to get it off in the next mail."After another minute, during which her pen scratched busily, sheturned round and relaxed with an air of "at your service." AgainBernice had to speak."Do you want me to go home?""Well," said Marjorie, considering, "I suppose if you're nothaving a good time you'd better go. No use being miserable.""Don't you think common kindness---""Oh, please don't quote 'Little Women'!" cried Marjorieimpatiently. "That's out of style.""You think so?""Heavens, yes! What modern girl could live like those inanefemales?""They were the models for our mothers."Marjorie laughed."Yes, they were--not! Besides, our mothers were all very well intheir way, but they know very little about their daughters'problems."Bernice drew herself up."Please don't talk about my mother."Marjorie laughed."I don't think I mentioned her."Bernice felt that she was being led away from her subject."Do you think you've treated me very well?""I've done my best. You're rather hard material to work with."The lids of Bernice's eyes reddened."I think you're hard and selfish, and you haven't a femininequality in you.""Oh, my Lord!" cried Marjorie in desperation "You little nut!Girls like you are responsible for all the tiresome colorlessmarriages; all those ghastly inefficiencies that pass as femininequalities. What a blow it must be when a man with imaginationmarries the beautiful bundle of clothes that he's been buildingideals round, and finds that she's just a weak, whining, cowardlymass of affectations!"Bernice's mouth had slipped half open."The womanly woman!" continued Marjorie. "Her whole early life isoccupied in whining criticisms of girls like me who really dohave a good time."Bernice's jaw descended farther as Marjorie's voice rose."There's some excuse for an ugly girl whining. If I'd beenirretrievably ugly I'd never have forgiven my parents forbringing me into the world. But you're starting life without anyhandicap--" Marjorie's little fist clinched, "If you expect me toweep with you you'll be disappointed. Go or stay, just as youlike." And picking up her letters she left the room.Bernice claimed a headache and failed to appear at luncheon. Theyhad a matinee date for the afternoon, but the headachepersisting, Marjorie made explanation to a not very downcast boy.But when she returned late in the afternoon she found Bernicewith a strangely set face waiting for her in her bedroom."I've decided," began Bernice without preliminaries, "that maybeyou're right about things--possibly not. But if you'll tell mewhy your friends aren't--aren't interested in me I'll see if Ican do what you want me to."Marjorie was at the mirror shaking down her hair."Do you mean it?""Yes.""Without reservations? Will you do exactly what I say?""Well, I---""Well nothing! Will you do exactly as I say?""If they're sensible things.""They're not! You're no case for sensible things.""Are you going to make--to recommend---""Yes, everything. If I tell you to take boxing-lessons you'llhave to do it. Write home and tell your mother you're going' tostay another two weeks."If you'll tell me---""All right--I'll just give you a few examples now. First you haveno ease of manner. Why? Because you're never sure about yourpersonal appearance. When a girl feels that she's perfectlygroomed and dressed she can forget that part of her. That'scharm. The more parts of yourself you can afford to forget themore charm you have.""Don't I look all right?""No; for instance you never take care of your eyebrows. They'reblack and lustrous, but by leaving them straggly they're ablemish. They'd be beautiful if you'd take care of them inone-tenth the time you take doing nothing. You're going to brushthem so that they'll grow straight."Bernice raised the brows in question."Do you mean to say that men notice eyebrows?""Yes--subconsciously. And when you go home you ought to have yourteeth straightened a little. It's almost imperceptible,still---""But I thought," interrupted Bernice in bewilderment, "that youdespised little dainty feminine things like that.""I hate dainty minds," answered Marjorie. "But a girl has to bedainty in person. If she looks like a million dollars she cantalk about Russia, ping-pong, or the League of Nations and getaway with it.""What else?""Oh, I'm just beginning! There's your dancing.""Don't I dance all right?""No, you don't--you lean on a man; yes, you do--ever so slightly.I noticed it when we were dancing together yesterday. And youdance standing up straight instead of bending over a little.Probably some old lady on the side-line once told you that youlooked so dignified that way. But except with a very small girlit's much harder on the man, and he's the one that counts.""Go on." Bernice's brain was reeling."Well, you've got to learn to be nice to men who are sad birds.You look as if you'd been insulted whenever you're thrown withany except the most popular boys. Why, Bernice, I'm cut in onevery few feet--and who does most of it? Why, those very sadbirds. No girl can afford to neglect them. They're the big partof any crowd. Young boys too shy to talk are the very bestconversational practice. Clumsy boys are the best dancingpractice. If you can follow them and yet look graceful you canfollow a baby tank across a barb-wire sky-scraper."Bernice sighed profoundly, but Marjorie was not through."If you go to a dance and really amuse, say, three sad birds thatdance with you; if you talk so well to them that they forgetthey're stuck with you, you've done something. They'll come backnext time, and gradually so many sad birds will dance with youthat the attractive boys will see there's no danger of beingstuck--then they'll dance with you.""Yes," agreed Bernice faintly. "I think I begin to see.""And finally," concluded Marjorie, "poise and charm will justcome. You'll wake up some morning knowing you've attained it andmen will know it too."Bernice rose."It's been awfully kind of you--but nobody's ever talked to melike this before, and I feel sort of startled."Marjorie made no answer but gazed pensively at her own image inthe mirror."You're a peach to help me," continued Bernice.Still Marjorie did not answer, and Bernice thought she had seemedtoo grateful."I know you don't like sentiment," she said timidly.Marjorie turned to her quickly."Oh, I wasn't thinking about that. I was considering whether wehadn't better bob your hair."Bernice collapsed backward upon the bed.IVOn the following Wednesday evening there was a dinner-dance atthe country club. When the guests strolled in Bernice found herplace-card with a slight feeling of irritation. Though at herright sat G. Reece Stoddard, a most desirable and distinguishedyoung bachelor, the all-important left held only Charley Paulson.Charley lacked height, beauty, and social shrewdness, and in hernew enlightenment Bernice decided that his only qualification tobe her partner was that he had never been stuck with her. Butthis feeling of irritation left with the last of the soup-plates,and Marjorie's specific instruction came to her. Swallowing herpride 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 ofattracting attention."Charley smiled pleasantly. He could not know this had beenrehearsed. 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 necessaryprelude. She added that she wanted to ask his advice, because shehad heard he was so critical about girls.Charley, who knew as much about the psychology of women as he didof the mental states of Buddhist contemplatives, felt vaguelyflattered."So I've decided," she continued, her voice rising slightly,"that early next week I'm going down to the Sevier Hotelbarber-shop, sit in the first chair, and get my hair bobbed." Shefaltered noticing that the people near her had paused in theirconversation and were listening; but after a confused secondMarjorie's coaching told, and she finished her paragraph to thevicinity at large. "Of course I'm charging admission, but ifyou'll all come down and encourage me I'll issue passes for theinside seats."There was a ripple of appreciative laughter, and under cover ofit G. Reece Stoddard leaned over quickly and said close to herear: "I'll take a box right now."She met his eyes and smiled as if he had said somethingsurprisingly brilliant."Do you believe in bobbed hair?" asked G. Reece in the sameundertone."I think it's unmoral," affirmed Bernice gravely. "But, ofcourse, you've either got to amuse people or feed 'em or shock'em." Marjorie had culled this from Oscar Wilde. It was greetedwith a ripple of laughter from the men and a series of quick,intent looks from the girls. And then as though she had saidnothing of wit or moment Bernice turned again to Charley andspoke confidentially in his ear."I want to ask you your opinion of several people. I imagineyou're a wonderful judge of character."Charley thrilled faintly--paid her a subtle compliment byoverturning her water.Two hours later, while Warren McIntyre was standing passively inthe stag line abstractedly watching the dancers and wonderingwhither and with whom Marjorie had disappeared, an unrelatedperception began to creep slowly upon him--a perception thatBernice, cousin to Marjorie, had been cut in on several times inthe past five minutes. He closed his eyes, opened them and lookedagain. Several minutes back she had been dancing with a visitingboy, a matter easily accounted for; a visiting boy would know nobetter. But now she was dancing with some one else, and therewas Charley Paulson headed for her with enthusiasticdetermination in his eye. Funny--Charley seldom danced with morethan three girls an evening.Warren was distinctly surprised when--the exchange having beeneffected--the man relieved proved to be none ether than G. ReeceStoddard himself. And G. Reece seemed not at all jubilant atbeing relieved. Next time Bernice danced near, Warren regardedher intently. Yes, she was pretty, distinctly pretty; andto-night her face seemed really vivacious. She had that look thatno woman, however histrionically proficient, can successfullycounterfeit--she looked as if she were having a good time. Heliked the way she had her hair arranged, wondered if it wasbrilliantine that made it glisten so. And that dress wasbecoming--a dark red that set off her shadowy eyes and highcoloring. He remembered that he had thought her pretty when shefirst came to town, before he had realized that she was dull. Toobad she was dull--dull girls unbearable--certainly prettythough.His thoughts zigzagged back to Marjorie. This disappearance wouldbe like other disappearances. When she reappeared he woulddemand where she had been--would be told emphatically that it wasnone of his business. What a pity she was so sure of him! Shebasked in the knowledge that no other girl in town interestedhim; she defied him to fall in love with Genevieve orRoberta.Warren sighed. The way to Marjorie's affections was a labyrinthindeed. He looked up. Bernice was again dancing with the visitingboy. Half unconsciously he took a step out from the stag line inher direction, and hesitated. Then he said to himself that itwas 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 onBernice.That night at one o'clock Marjorie, with one hand on theelectric-light switch in the hall, turned to take a last look atBernice'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 oftalk. I had to repeat myself-- with different men of course. Ihope they won't compare notes.""Men don't," said Marjorie, yawning, "and it wouldn't matter ifthey did--they'd think you were even trickier."She snapped out the light, and as they started up the stairsBernice grasped the banister thankfully. For the first time inher life she had been danced tired."You see," said Marjorie it the top of the stairs, "one man seesanother 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 herin review. She had followed instructions exactly. Even whenCharley Paulson cut in for the eighth time she had simulateddelight and had apparently been both interested and flattered.She had not talked about the weather or Eau Claire or automobilesor her school, but had confined her conversation to me, you, andus.But a few minutes before she fell asleep a rebellious thought waschurning drowsily in her brain--after all, it was she who haddone it. Marjorie, to be sure, had given her her conversation,but then Marjorie got much of her conversation out of things sheread. Bernice had bought the red dress, though she had nevervalued it highly before Marjorie dug it out of her trunk--and herown voice had said the words, her own lips had smiled, her ownfeet had danced. Marjorie nice girl--vain, though--niceevening--nice boys--like Warren--Warren--Warren-- what's hisname--Warren---She fell asleep.VTo Bernice the next week was a revelation. With the feeling thatpeople really enjoyed looking at her and listening to her camethe foundation of self-confidence. Of course there were numerousmistakes at first. She did not know, for instance, thatDraycott Deyo was studying for the ministry; she was unaware thathe had cut in on her because he thought she was a quiet,reserved girl. Had she known these things she would not havetreated him to the line which began "Hello, Shell Shock!" andcontinued with the bathtub story--"It takes a frightful lot ofenergy to fix my hair in the summer--there's so much of it--so Ialways fix it first and powder my face and put on my hat; then Iget into the bathtub, and dress afterward. Don't you think that'sthe best plan?"Though Draycott Deyo was in the throes of difficulties concerningbaptism by immersion and might possibly have seen a connection,it must be admitted that he did not. He considered femininebathing an immoral subject, and gave her some of his ideas on thedepravity of modern society.But to offset that unfortunate occurrence Bernice had severalsignal successes to her credit. Little Otis Ormonde pleaded offfrom a trip East and elected instead to follow her with apuppylike devotion, to the amusement of his crowd and to theirritation of G. Reece Stoddard, several of whose afternoon callsOtis completely ruined by the disgusting tenderness of theglances he bent on Bernice. He even told her the story of thetwo-by-four and the dressing-room to show her how frightfullymistaken he and every one else had been in their first judgmentof her. Bernice laughed off that incident with a slight sinkingsensation.Of all Bernice's conversation perhaps the best known and mostuniversally 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 youcome 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 thegray car of the hypercritical Warren McIntyre, parked daily infront of the Harvey house. At first the parlor-maid wasdistinctly startled when he asked for Bernice instead ofMarjorie; after a week of it she told the cook that Miss Bernicehad gotta holda Miss Marjorie's best fella.And Miss Bernice had. Perhaps it began with Warren's desire torouse jealousy in Marjorie; perhaps it was the familiar thoughunrecognized strain of Marjorie in Bernice's conversation;perhaps it was both of these and something of sincere attractionbesides. But somehow the collective mind of the younger set knewwithin a week that Marjorie's most reliable beau had made anamazing face-about and was giving an indisputable rush toMarjorie's guest. The question of the moment was how Marjoriewould take it. Warren called Bernice on the 'phone twice a day,sent her notes, and they were frequently seen together in hisroadster, obviously engrossed in one of those tense, significantconversations as to whether or not he was sincere.Marjorie on being twitted only laughed. She said she was mightyglad that Warren had at last found some one who appreciated him.So the younger set laughed, too, and guessed that Marjorie didn'tcare and let it go at that.One afternoon when there were only three days left of her visitBernice was waiting in the hall for Warren, with whom she wasgoing to a bridge party. She was in rather a blissful mood, andwhen Marjorie--also bound for the party--appeared beside her andbegan casually to adjust her hat in the mirror, Bernice wasutterly unprepared for anything in the nature of a clash.Marjorie did her work very coldly and succinctly in threesentences."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 WarrenMcIntyre. 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 carsdrove up in front of the house and there was a riotous honking.Both of them gasped faintly, turned, and side by side hurriedout.All through the bridge party Bernice strove in vain to master arising uneasiness. She had offended Marjorie, the sphinx ofsphinxes. With the most wholesome and innocent intentions in theworld she had stolen Marjorie's property. She felt suddenly andhorribly guilty. After the bridge game, when they sat in aninformal circle and the conversation became general, the stormgradually broke. Little Otis Ormonde inadvertently precipitatedit."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 onlya bluff of hers. I should think you'd have realized.""That a fact?" demanded Otis, giving Bernice a reproachfulglance.Bernice's ears burned as she tried to think up an effectualcome-back. In the face of this direct attack her imagination wasparalyzed."There's a lot of bluffs in the world," continued Marjorie quitepleasantly. "I should think you'd be young enough to know that,Otis.""Well," said Otis, "maybe so. But gee! With a line likeBernice's---""Really?" yawned Marjorie. "What's her latest bon mot?"No one seemed to know. In fact, Bernice, having trifled with hermuse'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 ofher, but under her cousin's suddenly frigid eyes she wascompletely incapacitated."I don't know," she stalled."Splush!" said Marjorie. "Admit it!"Bernice saw that Warren's eyes had left a ukulele he had beentinkering with and were fixed on her questioningly."Oh, I don't know!" she repeated steadily. Her cheeks wereglowing."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 fromWarren's eyes."I like bobbed hair," she said hurriedly, as if he had asked hera 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 throbbedviolently."What?" she gasped.Out of the group came Marjorie's voice, very clear andcontemptuous."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, challengedher, 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 lateafternoon beside Warren, the others following in Roberta's carclose behind, Bernice had all the sensations of Marie Antoinettebound for the guillotine in a tumbrel. Vaguely she wondered whyshe did not cry out that it was all a mistake. It was all shecould do to keep from clutching her hair with both bands toprotect it from the suddenly hostile world. Yet she did neither.Even the thought of her mother was no deterrent now. This was thetest supreme of her sportsmanship; her right to walkunchallenged in the starry heaven of popular girls.Warren was moodily silent, and when they came to the hotel hedrew up at the curb and nodded to Bernice to precede him out.Roberta's car emptied a laughing crowd into the shop, whichpresented two bold plate-glass windows to the street.Bernice stood on the curb and looked at the sign, SevierBarber-Shop. It was a guillotine indeed, and the hangman was thefirst barber, who, attired in a white coat and smoking acigarette, leaned non-chalantly against the first chair. He musthave heard of her; he must have been waiting all week, smokingeternal cigarettes beside that portentous, too-often-mentionedfirst chair. Would they blind-fold her? No, but they would tie awhite cloth round her neck lest any of her blood--nonsense--hair--shouldget on her clothes."All right, Bernice," said Warren quickly.With her chin in the air she crossed the sidewalk, pushed openthe swinging screen-door, and giving not a glance to theuproarious, riotous row that occupied the waiting bench, went upto the fat barber."I want you to bob my hair."The first barber's mouth slid somewhat open. His cigarettedropped to the floor."Huh?""My hair--bob it!"Refusing further preliminaries, Bernice took her seat on high. Aman in the chair next to her turned on his side and gave her aglance, half lather, half amazement. One barber started andspoiled little Willy Schuneman's monthly haircut. Mr. O'Reilly inthe last chair grunted and swore musically in ancient Gaelic asa razor bit into his cheek. Two bootblacks became wide-eyed andrushed for her feet. No, Bernice didn't care for a shine.Outside a passer-by stopped and stared; a couple joined him; halfa dozen small boys' nose sprang into life, flattened against theglass; and snatches of conversation borne on the summer breezedrifted in through the screen-door."Lookada long hair on a kid!""Where'd yuh get 'at stuff? 'At's a bearded lady he just finishedshavin'."But Bernice saw nothing, heard nothing. Her only living sensetold her that this man in the white coat had removed onetortoise-shell comb and then another; that his fingers werefumbling clumsily with unfamiliar hairpins; that this hair, thiswonderful hair of hers, was going--she would never again feel itslong voluptuous pull as it hung in a dark-brown glory down herback. For a second she was near breaking down, and then thepicture before her swam mechanically into her vision--Marjorie'smouth curling in a faint ironic smile as if to say:"Give up and get down! You tried to buck me and I called yourbluff. You see you haven't got a prayer."And some last energy rose up in Bernice, for she clinched herhands under the white cloth, and there was a curious narrowing ofher eyes that Marjorie remarked on to some one long afterward.Twenty minutes later the barber swung her round to face themirror, and she flinched at the full extent of the damage thathad been wrought. Her hair was not curls and now it lay in lanklifeless blocks on both sides of her suddenly pale face. It wasugly as sin--she had known it would be ugly as sin. Her face'schief charm had been a Madonna-like simplicity. Now that was goneand she was--well frightfully mediocre--not stagy; onlyridiculous, like a Greenwich Villager who had left her spectaclesat home.As she climbed down from the chair she tried to smile--failedmiserably. She saw two of the girls exchange glances; noticedMarjorie's mouth curved in attenuated mockery--and that Warren'seyes 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, anotherawkward pause, and then Marjorie turned swiftly and withserpentlike 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'sdriving 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 beforethey turned to Marjorie."Be glad to," he said slowly.VIBernice did not fully realize the outrageous trap that had beenset for her until she met her aunt's amazed glance just beforedinner."Why Bernice!""I've bobbed it, Aunt Josephine.""Why, child!""Do you like it?""Why Bernice!""I suppose I've shocked you.""No, but what'll Mrs. Deyo think tomorrow night? Bernice, youshould have waited until after the Deyo's dance--you should havewaited if you wanted to do that.""It was sudden, Aunt Josephine. Anyway, why does it matter toMrs. Deyo particularly?""Why child," cried Mrs. Harvey, "in her paper on 'The Foibles ofthe Younger Generation' that she read at the last meeting of theThursday Club she devoted fifteen minutes to bobbed hair. It'sher pet abomination. And the dance is for you and Marjorie!""I'm sorry.""Oh, Bernice, what'll your mother say? She'll think I let you doit.""I'm sorry."Dinner was an agony. She had made a hasty attempt with acurling-iron, and burned her finger and much hair. She could seethat her aunt was both worried and grieved, and her uncle keptsaying, "Well, I'll be darned!" over and over in a hurt andfaintly hostile torte. And Marjorie sat very quietly, intrenchedbehind a faint smile, a faintly mocking smile.Somehow she got through the evening. Three boy's called; Marjoriedisappeared with one of them, and Bernice made a listlessunsuccessful attempt to entertain the two others--sighedthankfully as she climbed the stairs to her room at half pastten. What a day!When she had undressed for the night the door opened and Marjoriecame in."Bernice," she said "I'm awfully sorry about the Deyo dance. I'llgive you my word of honor I'd forgotten all about it.""'Sall right," said Bernice shortly. Standing before the mirrorshe passed her comb slowly through her short hair."I'll take you down-town to-morrow," continued Marjorie, "and thehairdresser'll fix it so you'll look slick. I didn't imagineyou'd go through with it. I'm really mighty sorry.""Oh, 'sall right!""Still it's your last night, so I suppose it won't matter much."Then Bernice winced as Marjorie tossed her own hair over hershoulders and began to twist it slowly into two long blond braidsuntil in her cream-colored negligee she looked like a delicatepainting of some Saxon princess. Fascinated, Bernice watched thebraids grow. Heavy and luxurious they were moving under thesupple fingers like restive snakes--and to Bernice remained thisrelic and the curling-iron and a to-morrow full of eyes. Shecould see G. Reece Stoddard, who liked her, assuming his Harvardmanner and telling his dinner partner that Bernice shouldn't havebeen allowed to go to the movies so much; she could see DraycottDeyo exchanging glances with his mother and then beingconscientiously charitable to her. But then perhaps by to-morrowMrs. Deyo would have heard the news; would send round an icylittle note requesting that she fail to appear--and behind herback they would all laugh and know that Marjorie had made a foolof her; that her chance at beauty had been sacrificed to thejealous whim of a selfish girl. She sat down suddenly before themirror, biting the inside of her cheek."I like it," she said with an effort. "I think it'll bebecoming."Marjorie smiled."It looks all right. For heaven's sake, don't let it worry you!""I won't.""Good night Bernice."But as the door closed something snapped within Bernice. Shesprang dynamically to her feet, clinching her hands, then swiftlyand noiseless crossed over to her bed and from underneath itdragged out her suitcase. Into it she tossed toilet articles anda change of clothing, Then she turned to her trunk and quicklydumped in two drawerfulls of lingerie and stammer dresses. Shemoved quietly. but deadly efficiency, and in three-quarters of anhour her trunk was locked and strapped and she was fully dressedin a becoming new travelling suit that Marjorie had helped herpick out.Sitting down at her desk she wrote a short note to Mrs. Harvey,in which she briefly outlined her reasons for going. She sealedit, addressed it, and laid it on her pillow. She glanced at herwatch. The train left at one, and she knew that if she walkeddown to the Marborough Hotel two blocks away she could easily geta taxicab.Suddenly she drew in her breath sharply and an expression flashedinto her eyes that a practiced character reader might haveconnected vaguely with the set look she had worn in the barber'schair--somehow a development of it. It was quite a new look forBernice--and it carried consequences.She went stealthily to the bureau, picked up an article that laythere, and turning out all the lights stood quietly until hereyes became accustomed to the darkness. Softly she pushed openthe door to Marjorie's room. She heard the quiet, even breathingof an untroubled conscience asleep.She was by the bedside now, very deliberate and calm. She actedswiftly. Bending over she found one of the braids of Marjorie'shair, followed it up with her hand to the point nearest the head,and then holding it a little slack so that the sleeper wouldfeel no pull, she reached down with the shears and severed it.With the pigtail in her hand she held her breath. Marjorie hadmuttered something in her sleep. Bernice deftly amputated theother braid, paused for an instant, and then flitted swiftly andsilently back to her own room.Down-stairs she opened the big front door, closed it carefullybehind her, and feeling oddly happy and exuberant stepped off theporch into the moonlight, swinging her heavy grip like ashopping-bag. After a minute's brisk walk she discovered that herleft hand still held the two blond braids. She laughedunexpectedly--had to shut her mouth hard to keep from emitting anabsolute peal. She was passing Warren's house now, and on theimpulse she set down her baggage, and swinging the braids likepiece of rope flung them at the wooden porch, where they landedwith a slight thud. She laughed again, no longer restrainingherself."Huh," she giggled wildly. "Scalp the selfish thing!"Then picking up her staircase she set off at a half-run down the moonlit street.