Her situation was perplexing her very much, and the Widgett atmosphere was lax and sympathetic, and provocative of discussion. She looked round wildly, as if seeking some source of help, as the boots halted at the front door and the shouting intensified. She would be elemental; there would be in her somewhere the sleeping tigress. Wood's dwelling,—a plain, substantial, commodious farm-house. At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. Outside the post-office stood a nohatted, blond young man in gray flannels, who was elaborately affixing a stamp to a letter.
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