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Authors: Grace Livingston Hill
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trying to plan just what to do. His graduation was the least of all his troubles, he decided. He knew he had fairly good marks in all his studies, for being a Challenger studying came easily, and it was now so near to the end of the spring term that he could probably get his examinations in by mail and get his diploma. The college would arrange that for him on Dad's account. Just now he was more concerned about standing up the girl he had tried all winter to get than about his academic standing. But, gosh! Mother and the kids hungry! That was awful!
Stephen was surprised and somewhat crestfallen to find that his paragon of a girl lived in quite the lower part of the town and in a messy little street with crowded rows of common houses. It was half past five in the afternoon, and he found his lady standing on the unkempt front porch of her home in a very short dress of a former season's vintage and an old sweater, calling silly nothings across two porches to the corner where a youth two or three years younger than himself and altogether tough looking was engaged in nailing up a broken window blind. Before she recognized Stephen, he noticed that she was using the same coquettish airs and graces with him that she employed with her college friends.
As he drew nearer, he could hear what they were saying. The young lady seemed to be coaxing the boy to take her somewhere. At last, he broke forth angrily:
"Aw, shut up, Syl. I've took you to a dance the last time I'm gonta. You didn't dance with me once the whole evenin' last Friday, just played around with Blackey. Oh, I know he's gotta big car an' all that, but I tuk ya, didn't I? Nothin' doin' anymore, Syl. I'm cured. Go get some o' yer college cuties, and let real men alone."
Suddenly it came to Stephen that he would not have liked his mother and sisters to overhear this conversation. It did not give a good impression of Sylvia. His face flushed with annoyance. Who was this young animal that presumed to talk to Sylvia this way? Why didn't she resent it?
Far from resenting it, Sylvia was coaxing now.
"Aw, c'mon, Pat. I was jus' kiddin' ya."
Sylvia was using the same patois as her neighbor. Could it be that she had anything in common with such as he?
But suddenly Sylvia saw him, and there was a quick change.
Sylvia looked down with deprecating grace, smoothed down her old red sweater, pulling it up around her chin piquantly; patted her hair, fluffing it out around her face; and pirouetted down the walk to meet him.
"Oh, Stevie, darling!" she exclaimed. "You haven't come already? It's not time to go? But no, of course not. You wouldn't be going like that to a dance. You just came down to find the way before dark, didn't you?"
Her tone, her very inflection, the way she pronounced her words, were all utterly different from the way she had talked to Pat, and Steve could see Pat glaring at him angrily from his porch railing where he had perched himself, hammer in hand, even as Steve had glared at him a moment before. It was all incomprehensible; only somehow Sylvia gave Steve no time to think about it. She was lifting her gorgeous blue eyes. Even without the mascara they were entrancing. She was dimpling into that bewitching smile. She was once more the girl he admired beyond all girls. He had forgotten her coarse intimate banter with this common youth.
"I've come to tell you I can't go tonight," he said sorrowfully. "I'm all kinds of sorry, you know that, for I've looked forward to it ever since you said you'd go. But, you see, I've just had a call from home, and they're having trouble down there. They need me, and I've gotta beat it on the evening train."
The girl's face hardened. Her glorious eyes narrowed with a feline glint behind her lashes; her mouth set into a thin little line of selfishness. He suddenly realized that her hair was uncombed and her fingernails were dirty. The setting sun flung out a revealing ray and showed a line of green tarnish on the white neck
Stephen was surprised and somewhat crestfallen to find that his paragon of a girl lived in quite the lower part of the town and in a messy little street with crowded rows of common houses. It was half past five in the afternoon, and he found his lady standing on the unkempt front porch of her home in a very short dress of a former season's vintage and an old sweater, calling silly nothings across two porches to the corner where a youth two or three years younger than himself and altogether tough looking was engaged in nailing up a broken window blind. Before she recognized Stephen, he noticed that she was using the same coquettish airs and graces with him that she employed with her college friends.
As he drew nearer, he could hear what they were saying. The young lady seemed to be coaxing the boy to take her somewhere. At last, he broke forth angrily:
"Aw, shut up, Syl. I've took you to a dance the last time I'm gonta. You didn't dance with me once the whole evenin' last Friday, just played around with Blackey. Oh, I know he's gotta big car an' all that, but I tuk ya, didn't I? Nothin' doin' anymore, Syl. I'm cured. Go get some o' yer college cuties, and let real men alone."
Suddenly it came to Stephen that he would not have liked his mother and sisters to overhear this conversation. It did not give a good impression of Sylvia. His face flushed with annoyance. Who was this young animal that presumed to talk to Sylvia this way? Why didn't she resent it?
Far from resenting it, Sylvia was coaxing now.
"Aw, c'mon, Pat. I was jus' kiddin' ya."
Sylvia was using the same patois as her neighbor. Could it be that she had anything in common with such as he?
But suddenly Sylvia saw him, and there was a quick change.
Sylvia looked down with deprecating grace, smoothed down her old red sweater, pulling it up around her chin piquantly; patted her hair, fluffing it out around her face; and pirouetted down the walk to meet him.
"Oh, Stevie, darling!" she exclaimed. "You haven't come already? It's not time to go? But no, of course not. You wouldn't be going like that to a dance. You just came down to find the way before dark, didn't you?"
Her tone, her very inflection, the way she pronounced her words, were all utterly different from the way she had talked to Pat, and Steve could see Pat glaring at him angrily from his porch railing where he had perched himself, hammer in hand, even as Steve had glared at him a moment before. It was all incomprehensible; only somehow Sylvia gave Steve no time to think about it. She was lifting her gorgeous blue eyes. Even without the mascara they were entrancing. She was dimpling into that bewitching smile. She was once more the girl he admired beyond all girls. He had forgotten her coarse intimate banter with this common youth.
"I've come to tell you I can't go tonight," he said sorrowfully. "I'm all kinds of sorry, you know that, for I've looked forward to it ever since you said you'd go. But, you see, I've just had a call from home, and they're having trouble down there. They need me, and I've gotta beat it on the evening train."
The girl's face hardened. Her glorious eyes narrowed with a feline glint behind her lashes; her mouth set into a thin little line of selfishness. He suddenly realized that her hair was uncombed and her fingernails were dirty. The setting sun flung out a revealing ray and showed a line of green tarnish on the white neck
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