Marcia was asleep, in her narrow, pretty bed with little bowknots painted on the pale wood.  About the room all the tired and happy muss of after-the-party.  A white-taffeta dress with a whisper of real lace at the neck, almost stiffishly seated, as if with Marcia’s trimness, on a chair.  A steam of white tulle on the dressing table.  A buttonhole gardenia in a tumbler of water.  One long white-kid glove on the table beside the night light.  A naked cherub in a high hat, holding a pink umbrella for the lamp shade.

“Dear me!  Dear me!” screamed Hattie to herself, fighting to keep her mind on the plane of casual things.  “She’s lost a glove again.  Dear me!  Dear me!  I hope it’s a left one to match up with the right one she saved from the last pair.  Dear me!”

She picked up a white film of stocking, turning and exploring with spread fingers in the foot part for holes.  There was one!  Marcia’s big toe had danced right through.  “Dear me!”

Marcia sleeping.  Very quietly and very deeply.  She slept like that.  Whitely and straightly and with the covers scarcely raised for the ridge of her slim body.

Sometimes Marcia asleep could frighten Hattie.  There was something about her white stilliness.  Lilies are too fair and so must live briefly.  That thought could clutch so that she would kiss Marcia awake.  Kiss her soundly because Marcia’s sleep could be so terrifyingly deep.

“Marcia,” said Hattie, and stood over her bed.  Then again, “Mar-cia!” On more voice than she thought her dry throat could yield her.

There was the merest flip of black on the lacy bosom of Marcia’s nightgown, and Hattie leaned down to fleck it.  No.  It was a pin—­a small black-enameled pin edged in pearls.  Automatically Hattie knew.

“Pi Phi!”

“Marcia,” cried Hattie, and shook her a little.  She hated so to waken her.  Always had.  Especially for school on rainy days.  Sometimes didn’t.  Couldn’t.  Marcia came up out of sleep so reluctantly.  A little dazed.  A little secretive.  As if a white bull in a dream had galloped off with her like Persephone’s.

Only Hattie did not know of Persephone.  She only knew that Marcia slept beautifully and almost breathlessly.  Sweet and low.  It seemed silly, sleeping beautifully.  But just the same, Marcia did.

Then Hattie, not faltering, mind you, waited.  It was better that Marcia should know.  Now, too, while her heart was so high.

Sometimes it took as many as three kisses to awaken Marcia.  Hattie bent for the first one, a sound one on the tip of her lip.

“Marcia!” she cried.  “Marcy, wake up!” and drew back.

Something had happened!  Darkly.  A smudge the size of a quarter and the color of Hattie’s guaranteed-not-to-fade cheek, lay incredibly on Marcia’s whiteness.

Hattie had smudged Marcia! Hattie Had Smudged Marcia!

There it lay on her beautiful, helpless whiteness.  Hattie’s smudge.