A charming picture she made--the soft, white Valenciennes of her matinee falling away from her throat and setting off the clean, smooth healthiness of her skin, the blackness of her vital hair; from the white lace of her petticoat's plaited flounces peered one of her slim feet, a satin slipper upon the end of it.

At the top of the heap of letters lay one she would have recognized, she thought, had she never seen the handwriting before.
"Sure to be upsetting," reflected she; and she laid it aside, glancing now and then at the bold, nervous, irregular hand and speculating about the contents and about the writer.
She had gone to bed greatly disturbed in mind as to whether she was doing well to marry the obstreperous Westerner.

"He fascinates me in a wild, weird sort of a way when I'm with him," she had said to herself before going to sleep, "and the idea of him is fascinating in certain moods.

And it is a temptation to take hold of him and master and train him--like broncho-busting.

But is it interesting enough for--for marriage?
Wouldn't I get horribly tired?
Wouldn't Grant and humdrum be better?
less wearying ?" And when she awakened she found her problem all but solved.