AMONG THE ANGELIC ORDERS
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For instance, one day at the end of the summer-or really, it
was close upon autumn, she wore stockings .and a suit-this girl found
herself suddenly in a mood of a gradually severe depression. But she
could not abandon herself to it. The weather was brilliant, she walked
in the Park and looked at foliage, made notes in her mind and got
impressions, but to herself she was drab and sad, and furthermore–
which was worse-not sufficiently sad.
At Sheila's place, later in the afternoon, she sat in a low chair
by the window. She had said very little ever since her arrival there.
Sheila had been washing her hair, and now she came near the
window to dry it. She tossed the heavy mass of fine pale hair, rolling
it into a towel, flinging her head up and down. Finally she threw
the towel on the couch and, standing in front of Gretchen, combed
her shining clean hair into a fluffy collar around her shoulders, a
gleaming hood or fichu, like Una or some other heroine. Sheila's face
was pink from the hot water, and, as always, quite breathlessly young.
One would easily have thought her a child if one looked only at her
rather strange, eager eyes. Although the weather was really cool and
gave definite promise of autumn, Sheila was still wearing one of her
light rose-printed voile dresses and white sandals. She sat down on
the couch, her flowered dress blending into the chintzy cover and
only her pale arms and golden hair rising out of the faded figured
mass. To Gretchen, it seemed briefly like an intricate "working"
Matisse composition-the girl in the flowered dress on a flowered
cover, a shuttered window throwing its slats of light on the floor.
But it was not exotic, and was more dusty and windblown, like a
picture left out of doors all summer. And Sheila of course was like
a breath or a breeze, without a body, like a pure spirit of maiden–
liness.
Sheila finally spoke. "You seem very quiet today, Gretchen. I
suppose you're very far away-perhaps you don't want to talk–
about your thoughts. Of course, I can understand that." She sat
there and spoke in her gentle, tender way, all the while her hand
moving, never stopping, as she combed and combed her pale hair,
like someone in a fairy tale, possessed.
Gretchen started, as
if
guilty to be caught in her own thoughts.
"No, I mean-yes. The thing is, you see," she said leaning forward,
"I'm afraid I'm going to have-a baby. And I don't know what to
