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Updated: June 25, 2025
The spirits of the group rose every second. Ah, this was living thought Martie. Oysters and wine and a real actor, a man who knew the world, who chattered of Portland, Los Angeles, and San Francisco as if they had been Monroe and Pittsville. It was intoxicating to hear him exchanging comments with Rodney; no, he hadn't finished "coll."
Martie hardly saw the gallant youth who congratulated her upon her becoming gipsy hat; mechanically she slipped her money into a pocket, mechanically started for the road to Pittsville. Five minutes later she boarded the half-past twelve o'clock trolley, coming in excited and exultant upon Sally who was singing quietly over a solitary luncheon. The girls laughed and cried together.
Wallace was waiting, elated at her punctuality. Martie explaining her fear that some one might report their meeting to her father, they waited openly at Masset's corner, boarded the half-past three o'clock trolley, and went to Pittsville. Pittsville was two miles away, but this adventure had all the charm of foreign travel to Martie.
One July evening she stayed rather late at the Library working on a report. Clifford was delayed in Pittsville, and would not see her until after dinner; the rare opportunity was too precious to lose. In a day or two all Monroe would know of her new plans: in six weeks she would be Clifford's wife.
Her father studied her coldly, while the table waited with bated breath. "Pittsville," he resumed in a measured voice, without moving his eyes from his third daughter, "is, as usual, making a very strong and a most undignified claim for the Park. They wish it to be known as the Pittsville Casino.
"Martie," thundered her father, "when you went to Pittsville you saw your sister, didn't you?" Martie's head was held erect. She was badly frightened, but conscious through all her fear that there was a certain satisfaction in having the blow fall at last. "Yes, sir," she gulped; she wet her lips. "Yes, sir," she said again. "You admit it?" said Malcolm, his eyes narrowing.
The big head nodded almost imperceptibly. He moistened his lips. "I'm all right," he said voicelessly. "Bad bad cold!" He shut his eyes, and with them shut, added in a whisper: "Sweet, sweet woman, Martie! Remember that day in Pittsville when you had on your brother's coat? Mabel and old Jesse !" Heavenly tears rushed to her eyes; she felt the yielding of her frozen heart.
"The trolley will pass it," her father pursued, "the Park being almost exactly half-way between Monroe and Pittsville. Now Pittsville ..." "What do you bet they get all the glory?" Martie flashed. "Their Woman's Club..." Her voice fell: "I DO beg your pardon, Pa!" she said again contritely. "I can discuss this with your mother," Malcolm said in majestic patience. "Oh, no! PLEASE, Pa!"
Suddenly they found the plural pronoun: we must do that; that doesn't interest us; Pa must not suspect our affair. "The Cluetts are going to be in Pittsville," said Wallace one day. "I want you to meet them. You'll like Mabel; she's got two little kids. She and Jesse have been married only six years. And they'll like you, too; I've told 'em you're my girl!" "Am I?" said Martie huskily.
Curiously changed, yet wonderfully familiar, the sisters had clung together, hardly knowing how to begin their friendship again after six long years. There were big things to say, but they said the little things. They talked about the trip and the warm weather that had brought the buttercups so soon, and the case that had kept Pa on jury duty in Pittsville.
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