Spalton shot me a glance of scarcely concealed
resentment and went on. We were left alone.
She began telling me of her deceased husband ... of their devotion to
each other ... she applied a dainty thing of lace to her eyes, pausing a
moment....
"John? may I call you by your name, not by the odious name they have for
you here?..."
She leaned her head against my shoulder.
"Johnnie, you are a fine, sensitive soul, and I know you'll be a great
poet some day ... but why don't these people take you more seriously?
"I think it must be your childlikeness ... and your spirit of
horse-play, that breaks through at the most inopportune moments, that
encourages these fools to treat you with levity."...
"Dear woman," I began, "dearest woman," and my throat bunched queerly so
that I could not speak further.
She stroked my hair....
"How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
"I am just a year younger."
"May I kiss you?" I asked, stumblingly.
"Yes, Johnnie, you may kiss me"....
"Why, you dear child, you ... you kiss just like a small boy ..." in a
lower voice, "can it be possible that you, with all your tramping, your
knowledge of life in books, of people?--"
I bent my head, ashamed, silently acknowledging my inexperience of
women.
"No, it's nothing to be ashamed of, dearest boy ... I think you are a
fine man--to have gone through what you have--and still--"
Her voice trailed off.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341