A day might even come when she would be brave enough to wear it.
Not many days after, Miss Quincey might have been seen coming out of St.
Sidwell's with a reserved and secret smile playing about her face; so secret and so reserved, that nobody, not even Miss Quincey, could tell what it was playing at.
Miss Quincey was meditating an audacity.
That night she took pen and paper up to her bedroom and sat down to write a little note.

Sat down to write it and got up again; wrote it and tore it up, and sat down to write another.

This she left open for such emendations and improvements as should occur to her in the night.

Perhaps none did occur; perhaps she realized that a literary work loses its force and spontaneity in conscious elaboration; anyhow the note was put up just as it was and posted first thing in the morning at the pillar-box on her way to St.Sidwell's.
Old Martha was cleaning the steps as Miss Quincey went out; but Miss Quincey carefully avoided looking Martha's way.

Like the ostrich she supposed that if she did not see Martha, Martha could not see her.