She decided that he was wrong about socialism; she feebly tried to see wherein, and determined to consult her teacher in ideals, Mamie Magen, regarding the proper answers to him. She was sure that he was rather crude in manners and speech, rather boastful, somewhat loquacious. "But I do like him!" she cried to the hillsides and the free sky. "He would take care of me. He's kind; and he would learn. We'll go to concerts and things like that in New York--dear me, I guess I don't know any too much about art things myself. I don't know why, but even if he isn't interesting, like Mamie Magen, I _like_ him--I think!" § 7 On the train back to New York, early Monday morning, she felt so fresh and fit, with morning vigorous in her and about her, that she relished the thought of attacking the job. Why, she rejoiced, every fiber of her was simply soaked with holiday; she was so much stronger and happier; New York and the business world simply couldn't be the same old routine, because she herself was different. But the train became hot and dusty; the Italians began to take off their collars and hand-painted ties. And hot and dusty, perspiring and dizzily rushing, were the streets of New York when she ventured from the Grand Central station out into them once more. It was late. She went to the office at once. She tried to push away her feeling that the Berkshires, where she had arisen to a cool green dawn just that morning, were leagues and years away. Tired she was, but sunburnt and easy-breathing. She exploded into the office, set down her suit-case, found herself glad to shake Mr. Wilkins's hand and to answer his cordial, "Well, well, you're brown as a berry. Have a good time?" The office _was_ different, she cried--cried to that other earlier self who had sat in a train and hoped that the office would be different. She kissed Bessie Kraker, and by an error of enthusiasm nearly kissed the office-boy, and told them about the farm-house, the view from her room, the Glade, Bald Knob, Hawkins's Pond; about chickens and fresh milk and pigeons aflutter; she showed them the kodak pictures taken by Mrs. Cannon and indicated Mr. Starr and Miss Vincent and laughed about them till-- "Oh, Miss Golden, could you take a little dictation now?" Mr. Wilkins called. There was also a pile of correspondence unfiled, and the office supplies were low, and Bessie was behind with her copying, and the office-boy had let the place get as dusty as a hay-loft--and the stiff, old, gray floor-rag was grimly at its post in the wash-room. "The office _isn't_ changed," she said; and when she went out at three for belated lunch, she added, "and New York isn't, either. Oh, Lord! I really am back here. Same old hot streets. Don't believe there _are_ any Berkshires; just seems now as though I hadn't been away at all." She sat in negligée on the roof of the Home Club and learned that Rose Larsen and Mamie Magen and a dozen others had just gone on vacation.