"It might land me 'most anywheres, my hair," she thought, "even in the moving pictures. They say a star can get along without any talent if she has the right kind of hair and wears her clothes well. I never had a chance to try on handsome dresses, but I guess my shape is as good as any of the stars I've seen. And my face wouldn't need any smoothing out nor touching up, for it's worrying that makes wrinkles, and I never was a worrier. Let other folks do the worrying, is my motto."
Undine, as she looked admiringly at her hair and skin and figure with the aid of a hand mirror, never once discovered that her nose was just the least little bit inclined to be flat. Her lips were red, but the line of her mouth had no lovable, generous curves. Her eyes were so blue that they rivaled sapphires, but they never suffused with tears, nor danced with merry sparkles of fun, nor looked deep, deep into other eyes, revealing all sorts of true, tender, unspeakable things. No, her eyes were a magnificent color and would last her to a good old age, but she would never see visions with them.
Nevertheless there was something in Matthew Milliken's personality that threatened the heretofore dominating influence of life, as it was lived in moving pictures. His youthful strength and manly presence stirred her heart just a trifle, and also his obvious passion for her had its effect.
There had been a moment that afternoon when she, who was ordinarily so self-centered, could not help noticing how the dog nestled his nose softly into Matt's hand; how the cat kept creeping round his legs, hunching its back and rubbing its ears till it got the stroke under the chin that it was wishing for; how the Jerseys came up to the bars to greet him. She had once seen him at milking time and noted how still the cows stood in the stalls, giving their milk tranquilly at the touch of his steady, kind hands. Yes, he would be good to live with, but he didn't dress well and looked worse on Sundays than he did in his working clothes. She liked the things he said, and the way he looked at her and complimented her, but there were sad lapses in his grammar. And how would he appear in company, if she succeeded in dragging him away from this one-horse village and establishing him where her beauty would have a larger audience?
She didn't know; she could not be sure. Why was it that a really "stylish" man from a large city never came across her path? If one ever did arrive, she felt sure that her heart, which had never in its life beat faster than normal, might carry her to a swift, sure decision. Meantime she was twenty and would soon be "walking down the western slopes of life," Mrs. Wilkins's metaphor for unmarried ladies over five and twenty.
"Sometimes I fear I shan't be able to stave Matt off till the end of the term," thought Undine. "That's what I'd rather do, for I'm certain to spend part of my vacation in Portland, where I always meet good society, and one can never tell what will happen. I don't want to see too much of him for fear I'll get to liking him and won't be able to settle matters for my best good. I wonder if his mother supposes I don't see through her and her 'try-cakes'? She hates me like poison, that woman does, because she knows I wouldn't fetch and carry for Matt the way she does!"
These reflections concluded, Undine went to bed and slept peacefully.
June was a trying month that year. The weather was unusually warm, and an outbreak of measles among the children interfered with Undine's preparations for the last day of school. She had several drives and moonlight walks with Matthew Milliken, and she had nearly succeeded in keeping him within bounds.
As she had perfect command of herself, and as he was simply dumb with love—shy, too, and full of fears at putting his fate to the touch too soon—he had not been able to speak his heart out and ask her "punctilió"—a favorite word of his mother's—if she would marry him in the autumn. He had awakened every morning determined to do it, and he had gone to bed every night without having succeeded. He assured himself that he had made some little headway on certain occasions that he recalled with burning cheeks in the solitude of his own room. He had held her hand for several minutes once when they were sitting under the pines on the river bank, but his enjoyment had been sadly incomplete, because he had been terror-stricken every second for fear she would take it away. He had been obliged to make the move himself finally because of the arrival of a large picnic party, the members of which he still regarded with fierce animosity.
Then—oh, never-to-be-forgotten moment of supreme bliss!—with a courage born of despair he had kissed her on Mrs. Wilkins's steps after Wednesday evening prayer-meeting. If she had not returned the caress as fully as he could have wished, at least she had not withdrawn herself in anger. It was at that moment that, made more daring by the remembrance that she was leaving the village for her vacation, he pleaded: