8. WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR HUSBAND’S DOING?

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WHAT DO YOU THINK YOUR HUSBAND’S DOING?

It is night on the boat; the last evening of the See-America-First-Cruise; Excursion tickets good until August thirty-first; Send the wife and kiddies if you can’t go yourself. It is night and all the children have gone to bed, allowing a blessed quiet to creep from the darkness and shroud the boat in wistful romance. Two figures stand in the bow.

She: Well, home tomorrow.

You: Yes. (Sigh) Back to work.

She: I do hope it’ll be cooler. But there, it never does get any cooler until the middle of September or after, so what’s the use of hoping? I didn’t have any right running away from the house this time of the year.

You: Sure you did. When you first came on the boat I said to myself, “There’s a little woman that sure needs a rest.”

She: You did! I didn’t know I looked that bad. The doctor told me to take a rest, but land, he’s always telling me that.

You: No, I don’t mean you looked exactly bad; only sort of thin and pale.

She: (Pleased): Thin! Heavens, I didn’t know that I ever looked thin. But it isn’t any wonder I’m pale. Goodness knows I never get out of the house.

You: You know, that’s one thing I just can’t understand about men. The way they let their wives stay at home. Believe me, if I ever get married my wife is going to have the best of everything. And plenty of time to enjoy it, too.

She: Well, I certainly think your wife’ll be lucky. But you’ll probably have to wait a long time to be earning enough. I guess HE doesn’t have it any too easy himself, working all day in an office. Sometimes he comes home mighty tired.

You: Maybe, but don’t you believe he has it any near as bad as you do. I’ll never forget my poor old mother slaving day in and day out. You know what they say—“Man’s work is from sun to sun; it’s woman’s whole existence” or something like that. I tell you, I grew up to respect women, I did.

(There is a pause while you think about it.)

She (sighing): Well, I certainly like to hear a man talk like that sometimes. I just wish Joe could hear you.

You: Oh, he’d say I didn’t know anything about it, seeing as I’m not married.

She: I don’t know. Joe’s awful reasonable. It was because of him I took this trip. He saw the ad in the paper and he says “Mary, that’d be mighty good for you,” he says. And I says, “Yes, but how would you get along?” He says, “Oh, I’ll manage.” And now I know that when I look at that kitchen I’ll just sit down and cry. I do like a nice clean kitchen. He didn’t even want me to take the children.

You: Oh well, it’s no more than he ought to do. You’re a mighty nice little woman; I bet he ought to know it.

She: Aw!

You: I bet he don’t know how lucky he is. Married fellows never do. How long have you been married anyway?

She: That’s a personal question.

You: Is it? I’m sorry.

She: Don’t be silly. I’ve been married six years.

You: Gee, he must’ve married you out of high school.

She: Kidder! (She is pleased.) Well, I guess I did get married kind of young.

You: I’ll say you did.

She: I think it’s better that way, don’t you? Keeps kids out of mischief.

You: I don’t know. I almost got married, but—I always thought maybe I’d better see the world first.

She: Maybe the Right One didn’t come along for you.

You: I guess that was it. Just my luck to find her when—oh, well.

She: What were you going to say?

You: Wouldn’t it be too bad if she did come along and I was too late?

She: That’s always the way, I guess.

You: Yes, that’s always the way.

(Another silence.)

She: You’re awful romantic, aren’t you? I’d know right away you wasn’t a married man.

You: That’s funny. It’s just what I would have said about you.

She: You could tell right away I was married?

You: No, just the other way around. I said, “Well, here she is!”

She: Here who is?

You: And then I saw your wedding-ring.

She: You know I have a girl friend who always takes off her ring when she goes to a matinee. Joe says to me, “Mary if ever a wife of mine did that I’d give her a good hiding.”

You: Yeah? Honest, you’d be surprised at the number of married women there are that lead a fellow on.

She: Really?

You: You bet. You wouldn’t know any like that, of course; but the way they act there ought to be a law against it.

She: I always say if a woman isn’t happy with her husband she ought to come right out and say so and get divorced or else not show anybody the way she feels.

You: That’s the right way to look at it. Of course I guess men don’t make it too easy for you either. Now me, whenever I’m tempted I just think of my old mother.

She: It depends on the mother too.

You: Sure.

(A comfortable and agreeing silence, while the boat glides on through the darkness.)

You: It sure is nice to meet a woman who can talk about these things without any—any foolishness. Oh well. Tomorrow it’ll all be over.

She: Tomorrow.

(Sigh again and pat her hand on the rail, leaving your hand over hers when the patting is finished.)

You: Don’t you think people ought to be broadminded about some things?

She: I guess so. What things?

You: Oh, different things.

She: Sure.

(Emboldened, you put your arm around her. She starts away.)

She: No, don’t.

You: Why?

She: It’s wrong. You ought to be ashamed.

You: What’s wrong about it? We want to, don’t we?

She: Say, Joe would kill you if he could hear you.

You: He can’t hear me. Aw, be sensible.

She: I’m being sensible. You’re a nice fellow; now quit. I’m going in.

You: No, wait a minute. Just a minute. You’ve got me all wrong. We’ve been good friends, haven’t we?

She: Yes, we have. I didn’t know you were going to be like this.

You: Didn’t you?

She (blazing): No, I didn’t! And what’s more——

You: Now, don’t get mad. Don’t get mad.

She: What’s more, Joe would kill you! I told you he’d kill you.

You: There can’t be any harm in me putting my arm around you.

She: Sh-h-h!

(The captain passes them in the darkness, muttering “Nice evening, folks.” She is frightened, and as you put your arm around her again she does not object.)

You: What harm could there be in it?

She: I wish you’d——

You: Come on, put your face up.

(Kiss her.)

She (bursting into tears): I tell you Joe would kill you.

You: Say, kid, what makes you so sure?

She: What do you mean?

You: What do you think he’s doing while you’re away?

She: Joe? Why—why——

You: Oh, be sensible. What did he send you away for? What do you think men are anyway?

She (frightened): You’re wrong; you don’t know Joe.

You: Now listen. You know how easy it is to act this way.

She: No—I won’t listen to you.

You: I don’t guess he’s any different from the rest of us. You been married six years? Say! Don’t be dumb. Listen; didn’t that schoolmarm in your cabin get off today?

She: No, no.

You: Yes she did. I’m coming around to say good night.

She: But I don’t want you to.

You: I don’t think you know what you do want.

She: No, I’m going in.

You: We’ve got a lot to talk about.

She (uncertainly): I oughtn’t.

You: What’s wrong with it? Don’t be dumb.

She: Goodnight. I guess we better say goodbye too.

You: Not yet. Oh, have a little sense, will you? He don’t know any more about you than you know about him.

She: Stop talking like that.

You: Well, how about it?

She: Well——

You: Aw, go on.

She: Well——

You: This door locks, don’t it?

9. MUSIC GETS ME

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MUSIC GETS ME

“Wouldn’t you think,” she says, “we’d have something from last year, anyway? There isn’t anything as dead as an old dance record. We used to have parties and break the old ones, I remember. And I made up my mind not to buy any more except Red Seals, because the other ones were out of date in a week. I believe that for a while I spent my whole allowance on records, every month.”

“Yes, it’s funny how fast they change,” you say, balancing a particularly warped disk on your forefinger. “Remember when jazz first came in—all horns and those sweet-potato things? They were awfully loud. Dad said the world was going crazy. And then the toddle.”

“Oh yes!” she cries, standing on one foot and bobbing up and down. “It was hard to break the habit when it went out. What are you going to play?”

You wind up the handle, and it squeaks in protest. “Never mind. See if you recognize it.”

“Oh, Venetian Moon! That reminds me of something. Do songs mean things to you? Do certain tunes bring back certain thoughts and feelings to you?”

“Sure, whenever I hear Poor Butterfly I think of Lorna Doone. I can’t trace the connection exactly, but I always do.”

“It must have been played somewhere when you read it,” she says. The record is finished, and the needle scrapes with a harsh sound. “It’s all rusty,” she adds. “I’m going to have it fixed up. I’m tired of the radio anyway. I’d rather choose what I want to hear.”

“Here’s Tea for Two. That was a pretty good one.”

“Yes,” she sighs. “I was kissed for the first time when that was being played. What a fearfully old record!”

Wind up the machine again and put it on, then hold out your arms. “Let’s dance.”

She glides to you. After the first few bars kiss her lightly. She stops, pushing you away. “What’s the idea?” she demands.

“I was just trying to revive old memories,” you explain. “Come on and finish; I’ll be good. Say, you’re a peach of a dancer.”

“Thanks,” she says, going back to the Victrola. “Whose old memories were you reviving then?”

“Oh, don’t be funny,” you grumble. “Here’s a real old-timer.” Hold it up for her to read; it is the Merry Widow Waltz.

“Mother used to dance to that,” she says. “Let’s try to dance in the way they did in the play last year.” But you can not imitate the graceful swooping circles of the Viennese. “It’s not so good,” she decides. “What else is here?”

“Here’s something called the Livery Stable Blues. Do you know it? I don’t.” You put it on, and a dreadful yowling fills the air. She covers her ears.

“Stop it!” she cries. “Take it off! Imagine dancing to that.”

“Oh gosh! Here’s Peggy O’Neill! That has plenty of memories for me, all right. She turned me down the same evening.”

“I’m so sorry, but you were too young to be getting married anyway. Look at this? I wonder why no one ever broke it. I think they played it at my first Prom. It’s queer, but the only people I remember at parties are perfectly irrelevant ones; people I just have one dance with, or something. This is having a very bad effect on me. I feel so old and regretful.” She sighs and looks in the mirror hanging on the wall.

“Well then,” say, winding up the machine again, “Listen to this and have a real good cry. You weren’t born yet when they were playing it.” Start to sing with the music. “Oh, tell me, pretty maiden, are there any more at home like you? There are a few—kind sir——”

“I never even heard it,” she says. “It’s quite catchy, too. They had a lot of good songs, in their way. What are you doing? You’ll get all dusty.”

You are struggling with a large pile of Red Seals. “Sometimes they have a waltz or something that you can use in these highbrow things,” shuffling them. “Here’s something; Valse Bluette. It might be good; let’s try to dance to it.”

But the rhythm is too varied for you. You struggle for a while, and then she breaks away, laughing and breathless.

“No good,” she says. “But here’s one of my favorites. Do you mind? Wait a minute.”

John McCormick’s voice rings out richly, marred only by a periodic scratch.

“Isn’t that lovely?” she says, raptly. “I always loved that song. Music always GETS me somehow. Let’s play it again.”

“Wait a minute,” you say. “I have something else.” The sweet strains of Liebestraum make the air sticky, and her ready laughter is stilled in reverence.

Say, “I don’t know if you’ll like this one or not. It’s a long one.”

She sits down on the divan. “Sure. Go ahead. What is it? I don’t remember any of them.”

“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.”

“What?”

“L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun. It’s French. Listen!”

She shakes her head briskly as you turn the record over, and starts to talk. Motion to her to be quiet, and play the second part. She speaks drowsily.

“It’s very queer. It’s made me sleepy. Are you playing it again? For heaven’s sake, why?”

“Well,” you explain, “it always sounds better the second time.”

Listen to it again, with your hands clasped together. Lean over to her. “It’s a funny thing about that music. It gets me.” Kiss her.

“I know,” she says. “If I listened to it very long I wouldn’t be responsible.”

“Responsible for what?”

“Oh, just responsible.” Kiss her again. She stands up. “Let’s play something loud and get waked up.”

“This ought to be loud. The Fire Song.”

“No,” she decides, after a few bars, “it isn’t loud enough. I can’t wake up. Play the Hymn to the Sun.”

“It scratches,” you object. “Here’s one something like it.”

Play the Song of India. She sighs and relaxes.

“I love that,” she says, dreamily. “What’s that you’re going to play?”

Without answering her, put on L’Apres-Midi D’Un Faun.

10. EVERYBODY DOES

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EVERYBODY DOES

“I think you’re perfectly TERRIBLE,” says the girl, smiling as if she doesn’t expect to be believed. “Whoever told you all about everything? I wouldn’t want to live if I felt that way. Why, what would we be here for?”

“I don’t see why we have to be here for anything, particularly,” you answer. “What are mosquitoes for?”

She hesitates for only a second.

“So we won’t get too lazy. They probably wonder why we’re here, slapping them just when they want to eat.”

Look through the window to the lawn outside, covered with snow.

“That’s an unusual remark for a girl of your sort to make,” you muse. “Well, you probably talk that way because this is winter. Now, if I had asked you in July, when there would be plenty of mosquitoes——”

“What ARE you talking about?” she asks. “What do you mean, a girl of my type?”

Laugh and glance at her obliquely. She is very pretty, you think, with that maddeningly serene face of hers. Just now, though she is interested, her expression isn’t really with you. You want to do something about it.

“I mean a girl of your type,” repeat firmly. “A girl who believes everything she’s taught.”

She frowns a little.

“Wouldn’t it be silly to go to school for as long as I have if I didn’t use what they told me?”

“That isn’t what school is for,” you answer hastily. Lord, what a dumbbell! Why am I here, anyway? But she is pretty.

“You’re pretty, anyway,” you say aloud.

“But that’s awfully mean! Pretty anyway! What do you mean? Don’t you think a girl can be pretty and have brains too?”

“Well—brains of a sort.” Now what am I in for? “Sure I guess you have brains. I bet you’re practical in business things.”

“Heavens, no!” she protests. “I can’t do a thing. But I was good at school. I was terribly good in Latin.”

Turn a little on the sofa and smile at her, leaning back. “Ever have any philosophy courses?”

“Of course,” she says promptly. “Three hours a week.”

“And Chapel every morning?”

“Every morning.”

“What did you do in Philosophy? I know about the Chapel.”

“Oh, we studied what all those old birds thought about the world and the mind and reality and those things. And at examinations they asked us to summarize the different points of view.”

“And you had Chapel every day?” you persist. This is something.

“I told you. It was compulsory.”

“They told you what to think, in Chapel?”

“Oh, no!” she cries. “No. Sometimes the Doctor would talk about smoking for girls, and sometimes about movies. And there is a beautiful sermon that he always gives at Easter, about bread and hyacinths. That’s about Art, you know.”

Nod thoughtfully. “Yes. He likes Art, doesn’t he?”

“You’re teasing me,” she says, sadly. “Whenever I talk about religion you get that way. I don’t see why we’re always fighting.”

“We’re not always fighting, are we? All right, let’s stop talking about school. But I did want to ask you something. Why do you think it’s so shocking when I say that God isn’t watching everything you do?” And you think with some anger at yourself that here you are again.

“I didn’t think it was shocking,” she says eagerly. “I’m never shocked. I was just surprised when you told Lilian you didn’t think He was personal enough to have opinions on Prohibition.”

“What makes you think He is?” you ask. Put your arm around her shoulders; she snuggles down comfortably.

“Well,” she begins reasonably, “how would we all be here? Don’t you think we must have come from—I mean, don’t you see that we must be something like Him? Not so perfect or so big and powerful, but—why everybody knows that!”

“So that makes it all right,” you tease her. “If everybody thinks so.”

“Well, I guess they’ve always thought so, for years. And it seems to work. Here we are, aren’t we? Don’t you think we’re improving? It must be right.”

“How did we get started on all this, anyway?” You are bored. “It was talking about Prohibition. It always happens.”

“Yes, that’s how it happened. You fired up when Lilian said it was a success. I’m glad Mother wasn’t there to hear you. She’s a little afraid of you anyway.”

“Is she? Why? I’m safe enough. We just talk—and talk—and talk!” Confound old women!

“I know,” she says happily. “I love to talk seriously. We used to have lots of arguments in my room at school, after hours.... No, I think you’re right; I don’t think Prohibition’s a success at all. I think anybody with sense would know it. Look at the way perfectly nice boys get drunk at every party. I almost died the first time my escort did. Dad said he’d shoot the young puppy. Mother says that never used to happen. I think Prohibition is terrible.”

“You are pretty,” say irrelevantly, and kiss her. She returns the kiss placidly.

“You shouldn’t,” she says, lazily.

“Why? Don’t you like it?”

“Of course not. What made you think I did?”

“Well, most girls do. In fact, I might say that everybody does.”

“Not girls!” she protests, shocked.

“For Pete’s sake!” you cry, exasperated. “Who on earth told you that? You don’t really think so, do you?”

“Why not? Don’t you take a lot for granted?”

“I never take anything for granted. Why do you wear blue? Because it’s becoming. Well, why do you want to look pretty? So that I’ll kiss you. Of course!”

“Don’t do that. I don’t want you to.”

“If I thought you meant it I’d stop. Look here——” Oh Lord, can’t I quit it? “Listen. You’re not consistent.”

“How?”

“You say that whatever people do must be all right, don’t you?”

“If everybody does it and it works out.”

“Well, doesn’t everybody do this?”

“Oh, no!”

“Don’t be an idiot! How do you suppose you were born?”

“But my parents were married.”

You tear your hair. How can one be reasonable with such stupidity?

“That hasn’t any physiological significance!”

“I don’t——”

“You COULD have been born without their being married, couldn’t you?”

She considers, then smiles triumphantly. “Not with my parents!”

“But what the hell did you and your friends talk about at school?”

“Well, some of the girls might have been fast. They wouldn’t say, of course.”

“A lot more than you suspected were probably ‘fast.’”

She resents this. “I’m not so dumb as you think.”

You feel guilty, and at the same time stubborn. You know this feeling: you have had it before and it always gets you into trouble.

“All right. Suppose I talked a little about your friend Lilian? How long have you known her?”

“All my life. Why——” in quick alarm—“do you mean to say that you know anything about Lilian that I don’t?”

“I don’t want to talk about Lilian. But you’re very trusting for your age. Everyone lies to everybody; didn’t you know that? Kiss me and forget about it.”

“I can’t. You have to tell me. Tell me!”

For a moment you feel sorry. You shouldn’t have done it; you know it. Your arm tightens about her. You have to stop her somehow; she is going to cry.

“Please don’t worry so. Everybody does. Please don’t cry, baby. You are a baby. It really doesn’t matter, I tell you. Not if everybody does.”

“No!”

“All right! I didn’t mean it!”

She wipes her eyes and sits up, looking at you curiously.

“Really? Did you mean it? Everybody? Lilian? You?”

“I don’t want to talk.” You feel miserable. You feel like worrying her some more. Put your arms around her, give her a little shake.

“Stop talking about it!” Kiss her hard; she kisses you with a new quality in her response. There is something defiant in her kiss.

Later, going home, you begin to feel badly again.

“I wish I could control myself. I always get into trouble. That was queer, though. Oh, well.”

Pause at the edge of the pavement, watching the sweep of the traffic, “She is pretty.”

11. THIS BUSINESS

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THIS BUSINESS

It is peaceful everywhere in town, but the barber shop is the most peaceful place of all. Two of the boys are working; talking in low tones to their customers; and the third is drowsing in the corner, behind the two-foot square bootblacking establishment. He has long since read all the ancient Libertys and Colliers and newspapers that are lying on the chairs. The air is full of gentle boredom.

Then through the door comes a stranger. She looks about the shop hesitantly; the two men that are sprawled out having haircuts glance at her apathetically through the mirror. Not you, however. You leap to position behind your chair and wave your towel encouragingly, almost lovingly. You feel actually affectionate; it has been a very dull afternoon. She isn’t bad either; clean and pink-looking.

“Yes ma’am,” you murmur, as you tuck the fragrant towel into the collar of her dress. “Shingle?”

“Not too short, please,” she answers. “Just a trim.”

Set to work with a flourish. The barber on the end winks at you, but pretend not to see it. All is quiet for a few minutes except for the snipping of the scissors, and then the coon who belongs to the bootblacking establishment shuffles through the door and puts a record on the Victrola in the corner.

Hum the tune and step lively as you reach for the clippers. Catch the customer’s eye in the mirror and smile. She responds slightly.

“It may be old,” say jovially, “but it’s still good.”

“I always did like it,” she admits.

Bend over and snip critically at a tuft of hair just behind her ear.

“What I say is,” murmur confidingly, “I’d rather have a good old tune if it’s really good than a lot of new junk. It’s funny about songs. I play the clarinet myself. Sometimes you’ll have a lot of swell ones and then a year’ll go by and you won’t have anything worth playing.”

“Yes, that’s true,” says the lady.

“Weren’t you in here about a month back?” Pause with upraised scissors to regard your work in the mirror.

“No,” she says, “I’m new in town. I was through here once when I was a baby, that’s all.”

“That’s funny. I thought sure I cut your hair once before.”

“No, you couldn’t have.”

“Who did cut it last time?”

“I don’t know. A fellow in Dodge City.”

“It looks like a Dodge City haircut. They must learn how to cut hair by correspondence in that town.” Chuckle at the joke. She is annoyed.

“It looked all right to me,” she says promptly.

“Sure,” answer her, “it looks all right. I’m not saying it didn’t look all right. It’s when it gets long the unevenness shows up, but you don’t need to worry. It looks all right now.”

Work industriously for a minute, then step back again to survey the effect. “Do you want it any shorter on the side there?”

“Whatever you think looks best. I guess you know more about how it ought to look.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that,” you protest.

“Sure you do,” she says.

“You going to stay in town long?” Select a pair of clippers.

“Yes, I’m here for good, I guess. I’ve got a job here.”

“That’s swell,” heartily. “We need new people here. Don’t we, Jim?”

The second barber jumps and looks up. “Eh?” he says.

“I was just telling the little lady we need new people here.”

“Oh, uh, yes. Sure.”

“Yes,” you resume, “it’s a good town, but sometimes you get to wishing there were more people. You know, young people.”

“Yes, I must say it doesn’t look very lively to me,” she says. “Of course I’m used to Dodge City; that’s pretty lively.”

“Well now, I don’t know. You have to make your own excitement, of course. But it ain’t so bad. If you get in with the right kind, of course. A place like this, it’s pretty important what kind you get in with.”

One by one, the other customers leave and their barbers drift outside to loaf in the sun. Tiny grains of powder dance in the beams that slant to the floor of the shop.

“Do you mind the clippers?”

“No, go ahead.”

Work a minute in silence.

“Say,” you begin, “would you mind my asking you a personal question?”

“It depends on what it is.” She lowers her eyes to her lap.

“Are you married?”

She smiles. “You’ve got a nerve. No, I ain’t.”

“That’s good.”

“Why? It’s none of your business, is it?”

“You don’t act very friendly, do you?”

“Well, I don’t believe in acting as friendly as some people do.”

Laugh heartily and start to comb her hair tightly over her forehead.

“You know, you got pretty hair,” you say. She glances at it rather complacently in the mirror, and tips her head. Resume impulsively, “You know, this business is awfully hard on a man of my calibre.”

She is unsympathetic. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. I was just wondering if you were busy tonight.”

She giggles. “Who wants to know?”

“Ah, cut that out!” you cry, flicking the big duster on her neck. “I want to know. Who did you think?”

“I don’t know about tonight,” she muses.

“I’ve got a flivver. There ought to be a dance somewhere. I bet you’re a mighty good little dancer.”

“I’d like to,” she admits, “but I don’t think I’d better.”

“Why not?”

“Well, I’m just starting out in this place. You know how it is.”

“What’s the harm? A ride and a little drink won’t hurt you. If you like I’ll ask a couple of friends. Listen....”

One of the other barbers comes in again, and you stop abruptly. The haircut is obviously finished. Untuck the towel with lingering fingers and step to the door with her as she fumbles in her purse.

“Fifty cents, ma’am,” you say loudly, and add in a low voice, “Listen. Eight o’clock, see? What address?”

“Four eighty-three Garden. But I don’t know....”

“Oh, who’ll ever know about it? Eight o’clock, O.K. Fifty cents, seventy-five, one dollar. Thank you ma’am.”

“Say Jim, did you see that!”

12. GAME LITTLE KID

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GAME LITTLE KID

She watches you lazily while you souse the dishes in the lake and wipe them clumsily. She feels rather guilty about it, but at the beginning of the hike you have insisted on taking care of everything. It is your party. And it is a nice party, too. The moon is there, and the air is warm, and somewhere there is a flower that smells very sweet. She closes her eyes and leans against the rock and feels happy.

Knock the ashes out of your pipe and sit down by her, taking her hand in yours. “Swell night,” you say.

“Oh, yes! I’m having a good time.”

“So am I. I’ve had a better time today than I can remember since I don’t know when.”

“Really?” she protests smiling. “How about that race at Mackinac?”

“That was pretty good too. Only you weren’t along. It could have been perfect.”

She laughs easily. “I’d have been in the way. You’ve never tried telling me anything else before. What’s the matter with you tonight? Getting soft?”

“Not much use of that, is there?” You both chuckle. “You’re too cagey. I couldn’t say anything nice to you even if I meant it. You’d bite my head off.”

“Sure!”

Push her in mock exasperation, then take her hand again. She is a little uneasy about it, and leans over to tie her boot-lace more securely.

“Well, it’s all right with me,” say suddenly. “You know, you’re a pretty game kid.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“You sure are. Lots of people must have told you so before. I like you. Do you know it?”

“Glad you do,” she says. “I like you.”

“There, that’s just what I mean.” Fill your pipe again. “Saying it out, frankly, like that.”

“Why shouldn’t I, if it’s true?”

“Well, I don’t really know why you shouldn’t. But most girls wouldn’t. You know how women are.”

“Sure,” she says, largely.

“Gee,” you cry. “The way you say that! Funny kid.”

“Now, what sounded funny about that?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It sounded so boyish. You’re just like a boy, now that I think of it.” Turn and smile at her.

“Thanks! I always wanted to be a boy.”

“I’ll bet you did. Gosh, though, I wouldn’t if I were you.”

“Why not?”

“Girls have a much better time. I wouldn’t mind if someone had to buy my tickets and take me out to dinner once in a while.”

She thinks about it for a minute, poking the fire with the toe of her heavy boot. “I’m not sure,” she says slowly. “We pay for it, in a way. Suppose you had to see as much of some of the idiots that we do? You can just ask anyone you want; we have to wait till we’re asked.”

“Yes, that’s so. Some of them are pretty bad, I guess.” You laugh. “Anyway, I always thought some of your friends were, but I never dared to say so. What’s the matter with ’em, exactly?”

“They’re so stupid!” she cries. “They think all a girl is good for is to paw. They haven’t any idea of real fun at all.”

“I know.” Pat her arm comfortingly. “Just grab you as soon they look at you, don’t they? Most men are like that, I guess. I don’t understand it myself. I’m no saint, but I couldn’t have anything to do with a girl unless I liked her. Do you understand?”

“Of course,” she says, flushing a little in excitement. “I feel that way exactly. I’m so glad you do too. I was beginning to think that men were just different. Most of them——”

“Sure. Honestly, do they bother you so much?” You frown.

“Yes, even me. Can you imagine? Me!”

“That just shows you. If you’ll pardon my being frank....”

“Of course.”

“I can’t imagine anything like that, with you.”

“Certainly. I know. That’s why we get along so well, isn’t it?”

“We are—friends, aren’t we?”

“Sure!”

Squeeze her hand and puff at your pipe, thinking deeply. Then sigh, and say, “Funny thing, sex.”

“Isn’t it!”

“You know, it’s wonderful to be able to talk like this to a girl. I couldn’t if you were really a—a woman in my mind. But I don’t feel that way about you at all. You’re my friend. You don’t appeal to me that way.”

She wonders vaguely if she likes that. But she answers quickly. “Thank you. I know you mean it. You know, a friendship like that is valuable to me, too. I need it. I used to think that no matter how much I tried, it was just impossible to have a man for a real friend.”

“Really? Then we’re square, because you mean a lot to me.”

Put your arm around her and look into the fire.

“That’s another thing,” she says, thoughtfully. “That’s another reason I wish I could be a man. You have an awfully easy time with that sort of thing, don’t you?”

“What? Gosh, no. I don’t see how anybody could think so.”

“Really? I always thought you did. I don’t know very much about it, but——”

“I’m glad you don’t!” you growl with such fervor that she is surprised.

“What’s the matter? You shouldn’t care anything about what I do—like that. Not if we’re friends the way you say.”

“Well, I’ll tell you.” Pull her closer to your shoulder. “I can’t break away from a funny idea I have about you. I want you to stay just as straight as you are. It’s a queer thing, sex. I don’t want you spoiled. That fine straightness of yours is so rare. I guess I’m selfish to want anyone to live up to my ideals, but I do want you to keep it.” Give her a little hug.

She answers gravely. “Yes, I know. I want to stay the way I am, too. I don’t know how I really feel about it, I guess, but I do—I mean, I like myself now, do you see? It’s awfully hard to express.”

“I know. Gee, you’re a peach, kid. I do like you.”

“Thanks....” Kiss her softly on the cheek. “Look!” she cries, sitting up a little straighter. “There’s a shooting star.”

“It’s awfully nice. Come back here. Afraid of me?”

“Of course not!” But she sits up.

“You don’t trust me?”

“Don’t! Of course I do.”

“Then why act like that? You’ll hurt my feelings.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to!” She settles back against your shoulder. Kiss her on the mouth; she struggles away.

“What’s the matter, dear?” you murmur. “I thought you trusted me. What’s the matter?”

“Why, I didn’t mean—I do trust you. Only....” She stops and looks away from you.

“Then what is it? I don’t understand. Do you mean you—you can’t trust yourself? I thought you were so sensible about these things.”

“Of course I can. I’m not a man!”

“No, dear. But you’re a woman, aren’t you? Are you afraid, really?”

“I’m not afraid. I just didn’t want to.”

“Oh, I’m sorry....”

“I didn’t mean I didn’t want to.”

“Just don’t care?”

“Not exactly that....”

Laugh. “You’re a darling. I’m going to kiss you again. That’ll be all right?”

“Sure, I guess so.”

“You really liked it.”

“A little.”

“Don’t keep moving away like that! I’ll think you hate me. You just said we were friends.”

“Yes, but....”

“Comfortable?”

“Yes, but....”

“There now, I won’t bother you any more if you’ll only show that you trust me. Darling!”

The fire smolders, unnoticed.