Winter relaxed its clutch slowly that year. March was bitterly cold; even
April found the roads still frozen and the hedgerows clustered with ice.
But at mid-day there was spring in the air. In the courtyard of the
hospital, convalescents sat on the benches and watched for robins. The
fountain, which had frozen out, was being repaired. Here and there on ward
window-sills tulips opened their gaudy petals to the sun.

Harriet had gone abroad for a flying trip in March and came back laden with
new ideas, model gowns, and fresh enthusiasm. She carried out and planted
flowers on her sister's grave, and went back to her work with a feeling of
duty done. A combination of crocuses and snow on the ground had given her
an inspiration for a gown. She drew it in pencil on an envelope on her way
back in the street car.

Grace Irving, having made good during the white sales, had been sent to the
spring cottons. She began to walk with her head higher. The day she sold
Sidney material for a simple white gown, she was very happy. Once a
customer brought her a bunch of primroses. All day she kept them under the
counter in a glass of water, and at evening she took them to Johnny
Rosenfeld, still lying prone in the hospital.

On Sidney, on K., and on Christine the winter had left its mark heavily.
Christine, readjusting her life to new conditions, was graver, more
thoughtful. She was alone most of the time now. Under K.'s guidance, she
had given up the "Duchess" and was reading real books. She was thinking
real thoughts, too, for the first time in her life.