Thus did Mrs. Robson take meager and colorless realities and expand them
into things of blossoming promise. She was almost creative in the
artistry she brought to these transmutations. In the end she convinced
_herself_ of their existence and she was quite sure that Mrs. Finnegan
shared equally in the delights of her fancy.

Meanwhile November passed, and the first weeks of December crowded the
old year to its death. November had been shrouded in clammy fogs, but no
rain had fallen, and everybody began to have the restless feeling
engendered by the usual summer drought in California prolonged beyond
its appointed season. The country and the people needed rain. Claire,
always responsive to the moods of wind and weather, longed for the
cleansing flood to descend and wash the dust-drab town colorful again.
She awoke one morning to the delicious thrill of the moisture-laden
southeast wind blowing into her room and the warning voice of her mother
at her bedroom door calling to her:

"You'd better put on your thick shoes, Claire! We're in for a storm."

She leaped out of bed joyously and hurried with her dressing.

As she walked down to work the warm yet curiously refreshing wind flung
itself in a fine frenzy over the gray city. Dark-gray clouds were
closing in from the south, and in the east an ominous silver band of
light marked the sullen flight of the sun. People were scampering about
buoyantly, running for street-cars, chasing liberated hats, battling
with billowing skirts. It seemed as if the promise of rain had revived
laughter and motion to an extraordinary degree. At the office this
ecstasy of spirit persisted; even Miss Munch came in hair awry and
blowsy, her beady eyes almost laughing.