And she and Jim had never been married.
But Rosie Briggs wasn’t a quitter. Little in her life had gone by default. When the terms of the sale of the mine had been arranged and everybody in Conifer County knew that Jim was going to be a rich man, she capped his plans with hers and squared about to meet what was coming. She went over her clothes and spruced up as much as she could to match her new station. And very carefully she laid down a program of buying to be carried out as soon as the money came in.
Among her things she found a picture that she had clipped from a fashion magazine twelve years ago—a colored picture of an electric-blue plush dress of a style that she had admired. She felt a twinge of sadness as she wondered how many other things that she had wanted and gone without would look as queer as that now.
The dress she had worn when Jim took her out of the dance hall—the red dress with the spangles on it—looked queerer, but that night while Jim was in the village on an errand after supper she put it on and sat waiting for him by the fire, determined to play such cards as she had.
When he came in he stopped at the door of the little sitting room with a whistle of surprize.
“I ain’t seen that for ten years. Didn’t know you had it.”
“It isn’t much—” she said, smoothing the skirt.
She had lengthened and renovated it as best she could. It was the only piece of finery she owned.
“It’s all right. Lord, how purty I uster think it was!”