January was cold and dark. Life seemed to be made to match. Susan caught cold from a worn-out overshoe, and spent an afternoon and a day in bed, enjoying the rest from her aching head to her tired feet, but protesting against each one of the twenty trips that Mary Lou made up and downstairs for her comfort. She went back to the office on the third day, but felt sick and miserable for a long time and gained strength slowly.
One rainy day, when Peter Coleman was alone in Mr. Brauer's office, she took the little jeweler's box in and laid it beside him on the desk.
"This is all darn foolishness!" Peter said, really annoyed.
"Well---" Susan shrugged wearily, "it's the way I feel about it."
"I thought you were more of a sport!" he said impatiently, holding the box as if he did not quite know what to do with it.
"Perhaps I'm not," Susan said quietly. She felt as if the world were slowly, dismally coming to an end, but she stood her ground.
An awkward silence ensued. Peter slipped the little box into his pocket. They were both standing at his high desk, resting their elbows upon it, and half-turned, so that they faced each other.
"Well," he said, discontentedly, "I've got to give you something or other for Christmas. What'll it be?"
"Nothing at all, Peter," Susan protested, "just don't say anything more about it!"
He meditated, scowling.