Prom came early in May, and Hugh looked forward to it joyously, partly because it would be his first Prom and partly because Cynthia was coming. Cynthia! He thought of her constantly, dreamed of her, wrote poems about her and to her. At times his longing for her swelled into an ecstasy of desire that racked and tore him. He was lost in love, his moods sweeping him from lyric happiness to black despair. He wrote to her several times a week, and between letters he took long walks composing dithyrambic epistles that fortunately were never written. When he received her letter saying that she would come to Prom, he yelled like a lunatic, pounded the astonished Vinton on the back, and raced down-stairs to the living-room.
"She's coming!" he shouted.
There were several men in the room, and they all turned and looked at him, some of them grinning broadly.
"What th' hell, Hugh?" Leonard Gates asked amiably. "Who's coming? Who's she?"
Hugh blushed and shuffled his feet. He knew that he had laid himself open to a "royal razzing," but he proceeded to bluff himself out of the dilemma. "She? Oh, yes, she. Well, she is she. Altogether divine, Len." He was trying hard to be casual and flippant, but his eyes were dancing and his lips trembled with smiles.
Gates grinned at him. "A poor bluff, old man—a darn poor bluff. You're in love, pauvre enfant, and I'm afraid that you're in a very bad way. Come on, tell us the lady's name, her pedigree, and list of charms."
Hugh grinned back at Gates. "Chase yourself," he said gaily. "I won't tell you a blamed thing about her."
"You'd better," said Jim Saunders from the depths of a leather chair. "Is she the jane whose picture adorns your desk?"
"Yeah," Hugh admitted. "How do you like her?"
"Very fair, very fair." Saunders was magnificently lofty. "I've seen better, of course, but I've seen worse, too. Not bad—um, not very bad."
The "razzing" had started, and Hugh lost his nerve.
"Jim, you can go to hell," he said definitely, prepared to rush up-stairs before Saunders could reply. "You don't know a queen when you see one. Why, Cynthia—"
"Cynthia!" four of the boys shouted. "So her name's Cynthia. That's—" But Hugh was half-way up-stairs, embarrassed and delighted.
The girls arrived on Thursday, the train which brought most of them reaching Haydensville early in the afternoon. Hugh paced up and down the station, trying to keep up a pretense of a conversation with two or three others. He gave the wrong reply twice and then decided to say nothing more. He listened with his whole body for the first whistle of the train, and so great was the chatter of the hundreds of waiting youths that he never heard it. Suddenly the engine rounded a curve, and a minute later the train stopped before the station. Immediately the boys began to mill around the platform like cattle about to stampede, standing on their toes to look over the heads of their comrades, shoving, shouting, dancing in their impatience.
Girls began to descend the steps of the cars. The stampede broke. A youth would see "his girl" and start through the crowd for her. Dozens spotted their girls at the same time and tried to run through the crowd. They bumped into one another, laughed joyously, bumped into somebody else, and finally reached the girl.
When Hugh eventually saw Cynthia standing on a car platform near him, he shouted to her and held his hand high in greeting. She saw him and waved back, at the same time starting down the steps.
She had a little scarlet hat pulled down over her curly brown hair, and she wore a simple blue traveling-suit that set off her slender figure perfectly. Her eyes seemed bigger and browner than ever, her nose more impudently tilted, her mouth more supremely irresistible. Her cheeks were daintily rouged, her eyebrows plucked into a thin arch. She was New York from her small pumps to the expensively simple scarlet hat.
Hugh dashed several people aside and grabbed her hand, squeezing it unmercifully.
"Oh, gee, Cynthia, I'm glad to see you. I thought the darn train was never going to get here. How are you? Gee, you're looking great, wonderful. Where's your suit-case?" He fairly stuttered in his excitement, his words toppling over each other.
"I'm full of pep. You look wonderful. There's my suit-case, the big black one. Give the porter two bits or something. I haven't any change." Hugh tipped the porter, picked up the suit-case with one hand, and took Cynthia by the arm with the other, carefully piloting her through the noisy, surging crowd of boys and girls, all of them talking at top speed and in high, excited voices.
Once Hugh and Cynthia were off the platform they could talk without shouting. "We've got to walk up the hill," Hugh explained miserably. "I couldn't get a car for love nor money. I'm awfully sorry."
Cynthia did a dance-step and petted his arm happily. "What do I care? I'm so— so damn glad to see you, Hugh. You look nicer'n ever—just as clean and washed and sweet. Ooooh, look at him blush! Stop it or I'll have to kiss you right here. Stop it, I say."
But Hugh went right on blushing. "Go ahead," he said bravely. "I wish you would." Cynthia laughed. "Like fun you do. You'd die of embarrassment. But your mouth is an awful temptation. You have the sweetest mouth, Hugh. It's so damn kissable."
She continued to banter him until they reached the fraternity house. "Where do I live?" she demanded. "In your room, I hope."
"Yep. I'm staying down in Keller Hall with Norry Parker. His room-mate's sick in the hospital; so he's got room for me. Norry's going to see you later." "Right-o. What do we do when I get six pounds of dirt washed off and some powder on my nose?"
"Well, we're having a tea-dance here at the house at four-thirty; but we've got an hour till then, and I thought we'd take a walk. I want to show you the college." After Cynthia had repaired the damages of travel and had been introduced to Hugh's fraternity brothers and their girls, she and Hugh departed for a tour of the campus. The lawns were so green that the grass seemed to be bursting with color; the elms waved tiny new leaves in a faint breeze; the walls of the buildings were speckled with green patches of ivy. Cynthia was properly awed by the chapel and enthusiastic over the other buildings. She assured Hugh that Sanford men looked awfully smooth in their knickers and white flannels; in fact, she said the whole college seemed jake to her.
They wandered past the lake and into the woods as if by common consent. Once they were out of sight of passers-by, Hugh paused and turned to Cynthia. Without a word she stepped into his arms and lifted her face to his, Hugh's heart seemed to stop; he was so hungry for that kiss, he had waited so long for it. When he finally took his lips from hers, Cynthia whispered softly, "You're such a good egg, Hugh honey, such a damn good egg."
Hugh could say nothing; he just held her close, his mind swimming dizzily, his whole being atingle. For a long time he held her, kissing her, now tenderly, now almost brutally, lost in a thrill of passion.
Finally she whispered faintly: "No more, Hugh. Not now, dear."
Hugh released her reluctantly. "I love you so damned hard, Cynthia," he said huskily. "I—I can't keep my hands off of you."
"I know," she replied. "But we've got to go back. Wait a minute, though. I must look like the devil." She straightened her hat, powdered her nose, and then tucked her arm in his.
After the tea-dance and dinner, Hugh left her to dress for the Dramatic Society musical comedy that was to be performed that evening. He returned to Norry Parker's room and prepared to put on his Tuxedo.
"You look as if somebody had left you a million dollars," Norry said to Hugh. "I don't think I ever saw anybody look so happy. You—you shine."
Hugh laughed. "I am happy, Norry, happy as hell. I'm so happy I ache. Oh, God, Cynthia's wonderful. I'm crazy about her, Norry—plumb crazy."
Norry had known Cynthia for years, and despite his ingenuousness, he had noticed some of her characteristics.
"I never expected you to fall in love with Cynthia, Hugh," he said in his gentle way. "I'm awfully surprised."
Hugh was humming a strain from "Say it with Music" while he undressed. He pulled off his trousers and then turned to Norry, who was sitting on the bed. "What did you say? You said something, didn't you?"
Norry smiled. For some quite inexplicable reason, he suddenly felt older than Hugh.
"Yes, I said something. I said that I never expected you to fall in love with Cynthia."
Hugh paused in taking off his socks. "Why not?" he demanded. "She's wonderful."
"You're so different."
"How different? We understand each other perfectly. Of course, we only saw each other for a week when I was down at your place, but we understood each other from the first. I was crazy about her as soon as I saw her."
Norry was troubled. "I don't think I can explain exactly," he said slowly. "Cynthia runs with a fast crowd, and she smokes and drinks—and you're—well, you're idealistic."
Hugh pulled off his underclothes and laughed as he stuck his feet into slippers and drew on a bath-robe. "Of course, she does. All the girls do now. She's just as idealistic as I am."
He wrapped the bath-robe around him and departed for the showers, singing gaily:
"Say it with music,
Beautiful music;
Somehow they'd rather be kissed
To the strains of Chopin or Liszt.
A melody mellow played on a cello
Helps Mister Cupid along—
So say it with a beautiful song."
Shortly he returned, still singing the same song, his voice full and happy. He continued to sing as he dressed, paying no attention to Norry, completely lost in his own Elysian thoughts.
To Hugh and Cynthia the musical comedy was a complete success, although the music, written by an undergraduate, was strangely reminiscent of several recent Broadway song successes, and the plot of the comedy got lost after the first ten minutes and was never recovered until the last two. It was amusing to watch men try to act like women, and two of the "ladies" of the chorus were patently drunk. Cleopatra, the leading lady, was a wrestler and looked it, his biceps swelling magnificently every time he raised his arms to embrace the comic Antony. It was glorious nonsense badly enough done to be really funny. Hugh and Cynthia, along with the rest of the audience, laughed joyously—and held hands. After the play was over, they returned to the Nu Delta house and danced until two in the morning. During one dance Cynthia whispered to him, "Hugh, get me a drink or I'll pass out."
Hugh, forgetting his indignation of the year before, went in search of Vinton and deprived that young man of a pint of gin without a scruple. He and Cynthia then sneaked behind the house and did away with the liquor. Other couples were drinking, all of them surreptitiously, Leonard Gates having laid down the law in no uncertain manner, and all of the brothers were a little afraid of Gates. Cynthia slept until noon the next day, and Hugh went to his classes. In the afternoon they attended a baseball game, and then returned to the fraternity house for another tea-dance. The Prom was to be that night. Hugh assured Cynthia that it was going to be a "wet party," and that Vinton had sold him a good supply of Scotch.
The campus was rife with stories: this was the wettest Prom on record, the girls were drinking as much as the men, some of the fraternities had made the sky the limit, the dormitories were being invaded by couples in the small hours of the night, and so on. Hugh heard numerous stories but paid no attention to them. He was supremely happy, and that was all that mattered. True, several men had advised him to bring plenty of liquor along to the Prom if he wanted to have a good time, and he was careful to act on their advice, especially as Cynthia had assured him that she would dance until doomsday if he kept her "well oiled with hooch."
The gymnasium was gaily decorated for the Prom, the walls hidden with greenery, the rafters twined with the college colors and almost lost behind hundreds of small Japanese lanterns. The fraternity booths were made of fir boughs, and the orchestra platform in the middle of the floor looked like a small forest of saplings.
The girls were beautiful in the soft glow of the lanterns, their arms and shoulders smooth and white; the men were trim and neat in their Tuxedos, the dark suits emphasizing the brilliant colors of the girls' gowns.
It was soon apparent that some of the couples had got at least half "oiled" before the dance began, and before an hour had passed many more couples gave evidence of imbibing more freely than wisely. Occasionally a hysterical laugh burst shrilly above the pounding of the drums and the moaning of the saxophones. A couple would stagger awkwardly against another couple and then continue unevenly on an uncertain way.
The stags seemed to be the worst offenders. Many of them were joyously drunk, dashing dizzily across the floor to find a partner, and once having taken her from a friend, dragging her about, happily unconscious of anything but the girl and the insistent rhythm of the music.
The musicians played as if in a frenzy, the drums pound-pounding a terrible tomtom, the saxophones moaning and wailing, the violins singing sensuously, shrilly as if in pain, an exquisite searing pain.
Boom, boom, boom, boom. "Stumbling all around, stumbling all around, stumbling all around so funny—" Close-packed the couples moved slowly about the gymnasium, body pressed tight to body, swaying in place—boom, boom, boom, boom—"Stumbling here and there, stumbling everywhere—" Six dowagers, the chaperons, sat in a corner, gossiped, and idly watched the young couples.... A man suddenly released his girl and raced clumsily for the door, one hand pressed to his mouth, the other stretched uncertainly in front of him. Always the drums beating their terrible tom-tom, their primitive, blood-maddening tom-tom.... Boom, boom, boom, boom—"I like it just a little bit, just a little bit, quite a little bit." The music ceased, and some of the couples disentangled themselves; others waited in frank embrace for the orchestra to begin the encore.... A boy slumped in a chair, his head in his hands. His partner sought two friends. They helped the boy out of the gymnasium.
The orchestra leader lifted his bow. The stags waited in a broken line, looking for certain girls. The music began, turning a song with comic words into something weirdly sensuous—strange syncopations, uneven, startling drum-beats—a mad tom-tom. The couples pressed close together again, swaying, barely moving in place—boom, boom, boom, boom—"Second-hand hats, second-hand clothes— That's why they call me second-hand Rose...." The saxophones sang the melody with passionate despair; the violins played tricks with a broken heart; the clarinets rose shrill in pain; the drums beat on—boom, boom, boom, boom.... A boy and girl sought a dark corner. He shielded her with his body while she took a drink from a flask. Then he turned his face to the corner and drank. A moment later they were back on the floor, holding each other tight, drunkenly swaying.... Finally the last strains, a wall of agony—"Ev-'ry one knows that I'm just Sec-ondhand Rose—from Sec-ond Av-en-ue."
The couples moved slowly off the floor, the pounding of the drums still in their ears and in their blood; some of them sought the fraternity booths; some of the girls retired to their dressing-room, perhaps to have another drink; many of the men went outside for a smoke and to tip a flask upward. Through the noise, the sex-madness, the half-drunken dancers, moved men and women quite sober, the men vainly trying to shield the women from contact with any one who was drunk. There was an angry light in those men's eyes, but most of them said nothing, merely kept close to their partners, ready to defend them from any too assertive friend.
Again the music, again the tom-tom of the drums. On and on for hours. A man "passed out cold" and had to be carried from the gymnasium. A girl got a "laughing jag" and shrieked with idiotic laughter until her partner managed to lead her protesting off the floor. On and on, the constant rhythmic wailing of the fiddles, syncopated passion screaming with lust, the drums, horribly primitive; drunken embraces.... "Oh, those Wabash Blues—I know I got my dues—A lonesome soul am I—I feel that I could die...." Blues, sobbing, despairing blues.... Orgiastic music—beautiful, hideous! "Can-dle light that gleams—Haunts me in my dreams...." The drums boom, boom, boom, booming—"I'll pack my walking shoes, to lose—those Wa-bash Blues...."
Hour after hour—on and on. Flushed faces, breaths hot with passion and whisky.... Pretty girls, cool and sober, dancing with men who held them with drunken lasciviousness; sober men hating the whisky breaths of the girls.... On and on, the drunken carnival to maddening music—the passion, the lust. Both Hugh and Cynthia were drinking, and by midnight both of them were drunk, too drunk any longer to think clearly. As they danced, Hugh was aware of nothing but Cynthia's body, her firm young body close to his. His blood beat with the pounding of the drums. He held her tighter and tighter—the gymnasium, the other couples, a swaying mist before his eyes.
When the dance ended, Cynthia whispered huskily, "Ta-take me somewhere, Hugh."
Strangely enough, he got the significance of her words at once. His blood raced, and he staggered so crazily that Cynthia had to hold him by the arm. "Sure—sure; I'll—I'll ta-take you some-somewhere. I—I, too, Cyntheea." They walked unevenly out of the gymnasium, down the steps, and through the crowd of smokers standing outside. Hardly aware of what he was doing, Hugh led Cynthia to Keller Hall, which was not more than fifty yards distant. He took a flask out of his pocket. "Jush one more drink," he said thickly and emptied the bottle. Then, holding Cynthia desperately by the arm, he opened the door of Keller Hall and stumbled with her up the stairs to Norry Parker's room. Fortunately the hallways were deserted, and no one saw them. The door was unlocked, and Hugh, after searching blindly for the switch, finally clicked on the lights and mechanically closed the door behind him.
He was very dizzy. He wanted another drink—and he wanted Cynthia. He put his arms around her and pulled her drunkenly to him. The door of one of the bedrooms opened, and Norry Parker stood watching them. He had spent the evening at the home of a musical professor and had returned to his room only a few minutes before. His face went white when he saw the embracing couple. "Hugh!" he said sharply.
Hugh and Cynthia, still clinging to each other, looked at him. Slowly Cynthia took her arms from around Hugh's neck and forced herself from his embrace. Norry disappeared into his room and came out a minute later with his coat on; he had just begun to undress when he had heard a noise in the study.
"I'll see you home, Cynthia," he said quietly. He took her arm and led her out of the room—and locked the door behind him. Hugh stared at them blankly, swaying slightly, completely befuddled. Cynthia went with Norry willingly enough, leaning heavily on his arm and occasionally sniffing.
When he returned to his room, Hugh was sitting on the floor staring at a photograph of Norry's mother. He had been staring at it for ten minutes, holding it first at arm's length and then drawing it closer and closer to him. No matter where he held it, he could not see what it was—and he was determined to see it. Norry walked up to him and reached for the photograph.
"Give me that," he said curtly. "Take your hands on my mother's picture." "It's not," Hugh exclaimed angrily; "it's not. It's my musher, my own mu-musher— my, my own dear musher. Oh, oh!"
He slumped down in a heap and began to sob bitterly, muttering, "Musher, musher, musher."
Norry was angry. The whole scene was revolting to him. His best friend was a disgusting sight, apparently not much better than a gibbering idiot. And Hugh had shamefully abused his hospitality. Norry was no longer gentle and boyish; he was bitterly disillusioned.
"Get up," he said briefly. "Get up and go to bed."
"Tha's my musher. You said it wasn't my—my musher." Hugh looked up, his face wet with maudlin tears.
Norry leaned over and snatched the picture from him. "Take your dirty hands off of that," he snapped. "Get up and go to bed."
"Tha's my musher." Hugh was gently persistent.
"It's not your mother. You make me sick. Go to bed." Norry tugged at Hugh's arm impotently; Hugh simply sat limp, a dead weight.
Norry's gray eyes narrowed. He took a glass, filled it with cold water in the bedroom, and then deliberately dashed the water into Hugh's face. Then he repeated the performance.
Hugh shook his head and rubbed his hands wonderingly over his face. "I'm no good," he said almost clearly. "I'm no good."
"You certainly aren't. Come on; get up and go to bed." Again Norry tugged at his arm, and this time Hugh, clinging clumsily to the edge of the table by which he was sitting, staggered to his feet.
"I'm a blot," he declared mournfully; "I'm no good, Norry. I'm an—an excreeshence, an ex-cree-shence, tha's what I am."
"Something of the sort," Norry agreed in disgust. "Here, let me take off your coat."
"Leave my coat alone." He pulled himself away from Norry. "I'm no good. I'm an ex-cree-shence. I'm goin' t' commit suicide; tha's what I'm goin' t' do. Nobody'll care 'cept my musher, and she wouldn't either if she knew me. Oh, oh, I wish I didn't use a shafety-razor. I'll tell you what to do, Norry." He clung pleadingly to Norry's arm and begged with passionate intensity. "You go over to Harry King's room. He's got a re-re—a pistol. You get it for me and I'll put it right here—" he touched his temple awkwardly—"and I'll—I'll blow my damn brains out. I'm a blot, Norry; I'm an ex-cree-shence."
Norry shook him. "Shut up. You've got to go to bed. You're drunk." "I'm sick. I'm an ex-cree-shence." The room was whizzing rapidly around Hugh, and he clung hysterically to Norry. Finally he permitted himself to be led into the bedroom and undressed, still moaning that he was an "ex-cree-shence." The bed pitched. He lay on his right side, clutching the covers in terror. He turned over on his back. Still the bed swung up and down sickeningly. Then he twisted over to his left side, and the bed suddenly swung into rest, almost stable. In a few minutes he was sound asleep.
He cut chapel and his two classes the next morning, one at nine and the other at ten o'clock; in fact, it was nearly eleven when he awoke. His head was splitting with pain, his tongue was furry, and his mouth tasted like bilge-water. He made wry faces, passed his thick tongue around his dry mouth—oh, so damnably dry!—and pressed the palms of his hands to his pounding temples. He craved a drink of cold water, but he was afraid to get out of bed. He felt pathetically weak and dizzy.
Norry walked into the room and stood quietly looking at him.
"Get me a drink, Norry, please," Hugh begged.
"I'm parched." He rolled over. "Ouch! God, how my head aches!"
Norry brought him the drink, but nothing less than three glasses even began to satisfy Hugh. Then, still saying nothing, Norry put a cold compress on Hugh's hot forehead.
"Thanks, Norry old man. That's awfully damn good of you."
Norry walked out of the room, and Hugh quickly fell into a light sleep. An hour later he woke up, quite unaware of the fact that Norry had changed the cold compress three times. The nap had refreshed him. He still felt weak and faint; but his head no longer throbbed, and his throat was less dry.
"Norry," he called feebly.
"Yes?" Norry stood in the doorway. "Feeling better?"
"Yes, some. Come sit down on the bed. I want to talk to you. But get me another drink first, please. My mouth tastes like burnt rubber."
Norry gave him the drink and then sat down on the edge of the bed, silently waiting.
"I'm awfully ashamed of myself, old man," Hugh began. "I—I don't know what to say. I can't remember much what happened. I remember bringing Cynthia up here and you coming in and then—well, I somehow can't remember anything after that. What did you do?"
"I took Cynthia home and then came back and put you to bed." Norry gazed at the floor and spoke softly.
"You took Cynthia home?"
"Of course."
Hugh stared at him in awe. "But if you'd been seen with her in the dorm, you'd have been fired from college."
"Nobody saw us. It's all right."
Hugh wanted to cry. "Oh, Lord, Norry, you're white," he exclaimed. "The whitest fellow that ever lived. You took that chance for me."
"That's all right." Norry was painfully embarrassed.
"And I'm such a rotter. You—you know what we came up here for?" "I can guess." Norry's glance still rested on the floor. He spoke hardly above a whisper.
"Nothing happened. I swear it, Norry. I meant to—but—but you came—thank God! I was awfully soused. I guess you think I'm rotten, Norry. I suppose I am. I don't know how I could treat you this way. Are you awfully angry?" "I was last night," Norry replied honestly, "but I'm not this morning. I'm just terribly disappointed. I understand, I guess; I'm human, too—but I'm disappointed. I can't forget the way you looked."
"Don't!" Hugh cried. "Please don't, Norry. I—I can't stand it if you talk that way. I'm so damned ashamed. Please forgive me."
Norry was very near to tears. "Of course, I forgive you," he whispered, "but I hope you won't do it again."
"I won't, Norry. I promise you. Oh, God, I'm no good. That's twice I've been stopped by an accident. I'll go straight now, though; I promise you." Norry stood up. "It's nearly noon," he said more naturally. "Cynthia will be wondering where you are."
"Cynthia! Oh, Norry, how can I face her?"
"You've got to," said the young moralist firmly.
"I suppose so," the sinner agreed, his voice miserably lugubrious. "God!" After three cups of coffee, however, the task did not seem so impossible. Hugh entered the Nu Delta house with a fairly jaunty air and greeted the men and women easily enough. His heart skipped a beat when he saw Cynthia standing in the far corner of the living-room. She was wearing her scarlet hat and blue suit. She saved him the embarrassment of opening the conversation. "Come into the library," she said softly. "I want to speak to you."
Wondering and rather frightened, he followed her.
"I'm going home this afternoon," she began. "I've got everything packed, and I've told everybody that I don't feel very well."
"You aren't sick?" he asked, really worried.
"Of course not, but I had to say something. The train leaves in an hour or two, and I want to have a talk with you before I go."
"But hang it, Cynthia, think of what you're missing. There's a baseball game with Raleigh this afternoon, a tea-dance in the Union after that, the Musical Clubs concert this evening—I sing with the Glee club and Norry's going to play a solo, and I'm in the Banjo Club, too—and we are going to have a farewell dance at the house after the concert." Hugh pleaded earnestly; but somehow down in his heart he wished that she wouldn't stay.
"I know, but I've got to go. Let's go somewhere out in the woods where we can talk without being disturbed."
Still protesting, he led her out of the house, across the campus, past the lake, and into the woods. Finally they sat down on a smooth rock.
"I'm awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugh," Cynthia began slowly, "but I've been doing some thinking, and I've just got to beat it." She paused a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. "Do you love me?"
For an instant Hugh's eyes dropped, and then he looked up and lied like a gentleman. "Yes," he said simply; "I love you, Cynthia."
She smiled almost wearily and shook her head. "You are a good egg, Hugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don't love me. You did yesterday, but you don't now. Do you realize that you haven't asked to kiss me to-day?"
Hugh flushed and stammered: "I—I've got an awful hang-over, Cynthia. I feel rotten."
"Yes, I know, but that isn't why you didn't want to kiss me. I know all about it. Listen, Hugh." She faced him bravely. "I've been running with a fast crowd for three years, and I've learned a lot about fellows; and most of 'em that I've known weren't your kind. How old are you?"
"Twenty-one in a couple of months."
"I'm twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I've been crazy about you—I guess I am kinda yet—and I know that you thought you were in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time. That's all that mattered. It was—was your body, Hugh. You're sweet and fine, and I respect you, but I'm not the kid for you to run around with. I'm too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I've done a lot of thinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well, that's all we want each other for. We're not in love."
A phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh's mind. "You mean—sex attraction?" he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real—and everything was a little sad.
"Yes, that's it—and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don't want that with you. We're not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your letters. Sometimes I hardly