Kind of a beautiful, if strange, little story. The build up is excruciatingly drawn out. Bertha is so feverishly, inexplicably happy — you know she’s due for an explosion, or an implosion. But is she high on life and/or her carefree rich lifestyle? Is she feeling something more than just admiration for her new friend Miss Fulton? It’s a hazy road leading up to the simple conclusion, and I don’t want to give it away here, but I liked the ambiguity of the ending. Not regarding the action, but how Bertha feels about it.
I read it here, on Google Books.
I was inspired to seek out some Mansfield after reading this post on the Guardian books blog.