Groping

“Was that really true, what you said?”

“What?” Cynthia leaned against the wall, tucking her gray kimono about her feet. From that position she could watch the girl who stood before the mirror, braiding her dark hair. She could even catch glimpses in the glass of the girl’s face and firm neck, very white as it rose from the folds of the scarlet bath-robe. “What did I say?” she asked again, although she knew exactly what Mary meant.

“That you’d never kissed any—man?”

“Yes, it’s true.” Cynthia clasped her thin arms about her knees. “I didn’t suppose you did unless you were engaged.”

“Bless the child!” Cynthia caught a flash of white teeth in the mirror as Mary flung a long braid over her shoulder. “How’d anybody ever know she wanted to be engaged?”

“I’ve not been engaged,” said Cynthia.

Into her eyes and stubborn little mouth had come an intensity which rested in curious presaging on the thin, sober face with its high forehead. She was thinking that here was another of the things she didn’t know about, another of the things she had never talked about until tonight. She hadn’t talked much tonight; she had listened. The little dormitory room had taken on an atmosphere of midnight confessional, with youth offering all it knew of life, before the other girls, friends of Mary, had pulled themselves sleepily from their chairs and couch corners and said good-night. Shut in alone with Mary, warm, vivid Mary, Cynthia expanded delicately, pushing out from bonds of reticence. Perhaps Mary would tell her more about love and being engaged after they were in bed. She thrust the question aside, and returned to her delight in Mary’s intricate preparations for the night. The crisp rustle of the red ribbon Mary was tying about her head pleased Cynthia; she loved the curve of the white arms, with the loose sleeves flaming back from them.

Mary dropped her brushes and turned.

“There! I’m ready. Tired waiting?”

Cynthia jumped from the couch to help eagerly in the process of despoiling it of cover and reducing it to an ordinary bed.

“Pretty narrow,” said Mary, as she slid one of the cushions into a pillow-case. “Guess we can manage, though.”

“Oo—it’s cold!” she cried, pushing a window open and running back to the bed. “Turn off the light there and hurry!”

In the darkness Cynthia climbed between the covers, trying to make herself as small as possible at the edge of the cot.

“Cuddle up, Goosey!” exclaimed Mary, thrusting an arm under Cynthia’s shoulders, and Cynthia thrilled to breathlessness in the warm embrace.

“Didn’t anybody ever try to kiss you?” demanded Mary after a moment.

“Once.” For some reason Cynthia was glad she could say once, at least. “But I didn’t like him to try.”

Mary drew her more closely against herself, laying her free hand on Cynthia’s cheek.

“How cool your hand is.” Cynthia snuggled against it.

“Dear!” murmured Mary, and then, impetuously, “You ought to know how it feels, I think.” She lifted Cynthia’s face to hers, and her full lips closed on Cynthia’s. Cynthia lay very still, but within her slender, inert body something began to whirl and whirl, up to the sweet soft lips of Mary. Suddenly, with a shiver, she pulled away, hiding her face against Mary’s throat.

“It’s like that,” Mary whispered, “love is, only far, far more wonderful. You—you don’t mind?” she asked, as Cynthia trembled in her arms.

“Oh, no!” Cynthia drew away from her. “But it frightens me.”

“That’s just that you didn’t know,” said Mary. Under the practical tone was a note of uneasiness. “I thought you ought to know.” She settled herself more deeply into the pillows. “There’s so much a girl has to find out for herself. I did.”

“I guess—” Cynthia felt toward Mary with a timid hand. “I guess I have a great deal to find out.”

Mary seized her hand and pulled her again into the fragrant curve of her shoulder.

“You’re a dear!” she said, and a moment later, sleepily, “If I were a man I’d love you.” Her drowsy lips brushed Cynthia’s forehead.

Cynthia clung to the hand, full of the delight and the pain of mysterious quickening. More wonderful, Mary had said, and instinct-driven, blind, she yearned for that promise of great wonder. She felt beneath her cheek the slow, regular breathing, as Mary slept. Something rustled. She raised her head cautiously; only the curtain blowing in against the desk. The cold wind tingled in her nostrils, and she dropped back into her shelter. The faint, sensuous odor of white flesh made her glow, and in the dark warmth she drowsed, her mind full of new imaginings that hurried after her into her dreams.

She woke the next morning with a start, wondering what it was she was trying to grasp. Suddenly she remembered; as she looked over at Mary, who was stirring reluctantly, she flushed. Then she pushed the thing away from her thoughts; it didn’t belong to the bright morning, someway. Behind her thoughts, however, it still worked, so that she jumped out of bed without minding the chilly room, lowered the window, brought Mary her bath-robe, all in a mood of impersonal gratitude.

Breakfast in the big dormitory dining room was a hasty performance; after that Cynthia helped Mary straighten her room. Then she hurried into her coat and hat, while Mary, grumbling because she must spend the morning in a laboratory, gathered her notebooks.

“I’ll walk to the car with you,” she told Cynthia, “for a breath of air. Wish you lived in the dormitory instead of home.”

They walked briskly across the campus, the snow crunching under their heels. Cynthia slipped her hand in Mary’s arm with a little skip.

“Aren’t things bright this morning!” she said. “Bright blue, bright black—” they were passing a line of pointed firs—“bright white!”

“Cold, too.” Mary pulled her sweater about her throat. “Guess I’ll run back here.”

Cynthia looked up at her. She was wishing she had Mary’s bright color; it fitted into the clear winter day.

“I’ve had a beautiful time,” she said. Then she added quickly, “I’m going to the Assembly tonight.”

“With Clark?” Mary’s eyes met hers, flashed sudden meaning, and dropped.

“Yes.” Cynthia hesitated. At a distant rumble she withdrew her arm. “There’s my car. I’ll have to run. Goodbye!”

Breathless, she dropped into a seat at the rear of the yellow car which connected the college with the town. She bent her head, adjusting her hat and searching her purse for a handkerchief as several girls followed her into the car. In their furs and velvet hats they made her feel awkward; she didn’t know them well, anyway. They seated themselves in seats ahead of her, and as the car jangled its starting bell, Cynthia relaxed comfortably. She could watch them now, without having to strain for some answer to their chatter. For a time she did watch them, wistfully; they were much cleverer than she, much prettier. One of them tucked up a lock of hair with a smoothly white-gloved hand, and Cynthia resented bitterly her own clumsy woolen gloves. Her usual solace, that she could outstrip them in her classes, failed her. They were all beautifully gowned young ladies, and she, outside the pale, a queer, awkward girl. She turned her face toward the frosty window. A whiff of air as the door behind her opened to admit a passenger caught her nostrils, and she slipped into the night before. Half guiltily she lingered a moment at the verge of definite recalling. Was it wicked, when it was so beautiful? Even if it was! Slowly she let herself down into the pool of memory, amazed that she could thrill so at things cool over night. Through the memories came, somehow, the last glance Mary had given her, and swift, uncalled pictures of Clark, the boy with whom she went occasionally to dances. The car’s jerk as it swung into a switch aroused her, and she hurried off and up the short block to her home, whipping on an air of great nonchalance as she ran up the steps.

In the entry she stopped, to hang her coat and hat on the rack. As she opened the door into the hall she heard her mother’s “Is that you, Cynthia?” and smelled the spicy odor of baking. She followed the voice into the kitchen.

“Well, you’re here!” Her mother looked up from the pile of dishes she was drying, the habitual irritation of the tired house-keeper in her tone.

Cynthia glanced about the kitchen, with a vague expectation that she might find something changed; she felt as though she had been gone for a long time. Everything was quite the same, however, even to the oatmeal kettle soaking at the back of the range.

“I came right after breakfast,” she defended herself against an imagined reproach.

“There’s lots to do,” replied her mother.

Cynthia took the long-sleeved apron from the hook and slipped her arms into it, turning for her mother to button it at the neck. She still had a feeling of remoteness; for a moment she had lost her continuity with the familiar routine of home life. Her mother patted her shoulder.

“Did you have a good time?” She put the question in a casual way, and Cynthia answered “Yes” in the same tone. “What shall I do?” she asked quickly, to prevent her mother’s keen glance from developing into words.

“I don’t know.” Her mother sighed. “I’ve had a bad time with the range. There’s everything to do.”

“You go and sit down. Let me finish the dishes.” Cynthia tried to brush her away from the table.

“No, indeed. If you’re ready to work, you can see to the upstairs. And the sitting room’s got to be brushed up. Was it a nice meeting?”

Cynthia stopped in the doorway. “Very nice.” In a little rush of pity for her mother she added, “And afterwards some of the girls came up to Mary’s room and had a spread. The best cake! One of their mothers sent it. And they stayed and talked.”

“So you did have a good time.” Cynthia walked on into the dining room to hide the accusing flush which had run up into her face. Vaguely in her mind flashed the justification, “Mother doesn’t want me to know anything. She thinks I’m just a little girl yet.”

“Your father was put out because I let you stay,” her mother was saying. “I told him you’d have a better time.” The note of satisfaction deepened Cynthia’s guilt, and she caught her lip between her teeth to keep back a reflection on her father.

Upstairs it was too cold for loitering. As Cynthia hurried about, spreading the fresh Saturday linen, setting the rooms in order, the pleasant indefinite mood of hands busy with a task and thoughts relaxed came to her. She swept, frosted the cake, helped with the lunch, and waved her mother off for a shopping trip. After she had cleared the luncheon things away, she hung her apron behind the door, and went through the quiet house to the library. Always she found it a pleasant adventure to be left alone in the house, and today! She curled up on the couch under the window, and with a little sigh, slipped into the warm flood of thoughts, of half-imaginings, of trembling dreams.

Late in the afternoon her mother returned, and the two hastened the preparations for supper. Cynthia was filling the water tumblers when her father, after much stamping of feet on the porch, came in. He was a stocky, heavy-shouldered little man, with an obstinate chin.

“Well!” he called out. “Thought you’d make us a little visit, did you?”

Cynthia frowned; it was difficult not to take her father’s jokes too seriously. Through supper she was silent, eating listlessly, saying nothing, except in answer to questions. At the end, she pushed back her chair.

“I’ll have to go and dress, mother.”

“Why?” Her father gazed at her sharply. “Where are you going tonight?”

“Just to the Assembly,” said the mother quickly.

“What for? You were out all last night.”

“Last night,” Cynthia said, struggling to speak in a very dignified tone, “was only the literary society at college. I haven’t been to a dance for a long time.”

“Humph. Who are you going with? That college fellow?”

“Yes.” With an imploring glance at her mother, Cynthia fled up the stairs. She heard the protesting murmur of her mother’s voice as she shut herself into her own room.

Her father certainly could be most unreasonable! But the deeper concern of dressing for the evening drove her father out of mind. First she brushed her fair hair, trying to fluff it out about her temples, and sighing as it proved too fine and soft. She tied a blue ribbon about it, leaning forward anxiously to peer at the result. She bit her lip; was the ribbon better than no ribbon? She decided to wear it, turning from her reflection with a flush of distress that she was so plain. From the closet she brought her blue dress, slipping it over her head, and fastening it with a little shrug of resignation. How could anyone be pretty who wore always the same clothes?

She waited an eager minute after the bell rang at eight. Perhaps it wasn’t Clark. But she caught his “Good evening, Mr. Bates,” and laughed to herself in pleasure at his deep formality. As she reached the foot of the stairs her mother sent her an anxious glance; she may have seen a hint of new flowering in the palely flushing face. Cynthia extended her hand, her eyes seeking the face of the boy, as though she thought to find it altered. He looked exactly as he always had; a clear, high-cheekboned face, with practical eyes and immature lips. Cynthia lingered in the doorway while her father asked a grave question concerning the tariff. She didn’t hear Clark’s answer; she thought, instead, how strong he looked, in his rough overcoat. Finally they were free to go. As they ran down the steps Clark seized her arm.

“I feel in jolly shape,” he said. “Let’s dance every dance.”

Cynthia swung up to tiptoe and laughed. How he towered above her in the crisp dark! She could just see the outline of his face and the puffs of white steam his words made.

“Let’s dance them all—together!” she exclaimed.

“That’s the stuff. Let’s hurry!”

The Assembly Hall was only a few blocks from the house, in the second story of an office building. Never had its windows shone more brightly, Cynthia was sure.

“Oh, I’m glad I can dance.” Cynthia didn’t know she had spoken aloud, until Clark pressed her arm more firmly.

“You feel good, too, don’t you? Let’s hurry!”

And they ran together up the wide wooden stairs to the second floor. The hour for the dancing lesson was just over, and a few of the more venturesome beginners were trying their steps on the polished floor, while the orchestra—a pianist and two ’cellists—tried their strings and hunted for the music of the first number of the real assembly. Cynthia hung her coat in the stuffy little cloakroom, sent a swift glance at her blue ribbon in the tiny mirror, for once indifferent to the other girls about her, and sped back to the hallway. Clark was there; she appraised quickly the other waiting males. Not one so tall, so straight, so clean as he, she thought.

It was a new, gay Cynthia that evening, so light that Clark declared she was nothing but the music itself. Her former sober delight in dancing had vanished; she herself did not know how she had come into possession of cajoleries, of daring words, of glances more daring, of eyes swiftly averted. When they swung out to the last waltz, Clark’s hand tightened over hers.

“I wish we needn’t stop.” He bent over her, his breath fanning her cheek.

Cynthia’s eyelids drooped; she was nothing but a reed through which the rhythmic motion ran. When the music stopped she went silently for her wraps, something within her hurting a little that the end had come.

They were both silent as they went out into the dark, frosty street. Cynthia shook her head at Clark’s “Are you cold?” Her shoulder touched his arm, and in the dark her eyes widened. She slipped on the crusty walk, and Clark caught her hand. “You’re shivering!” he exclaimed. “Here!” Then his arm was around her waist. Cynthia felt the rough coat almost against her cheek, felt her heart whirling within her. They crossed the street and mounted the steps of her home. At the door Cynthia pulled away.

“You—you might come in—” she said faintly.

“I might.” Clark had a brusk nonchalance in his voice. “I’d like to get warm before I take my car.”

They pushed the door softly open and entered. Cynthia’s lips parted with a quick breath as she saw the empty sitting room. Her mother had not sat up for her.

“Let me take your coat.” Clark’s fingers were at her throat, unhooking the collar. She couldn’t lift her eyes, but she wheeled, eluding his arms. She shook off the coat, and ran across the room.

“It’s warmer over here by the register.”

She faced him, leaning back against the wall, her hands outspread. With fluttering wings within her breast, she watched him as he came slowly toward her. Something made her raise her heavy hands to pull the pins from her hat and drop it at her feet. The boy brushed it to one side and stood close to her. The fluttering wings ceased, and Cynthia thought in swift panic that she could even yet stop, could rush back to the old safe ground. This was happening because she had wished it. But Clark whispered, “Cynthia! Cynthia!” and she lifted her tender, wishing face. Then he had her in his arms, his lips eager against hers; her heart was molten quicksilver, escaping from her. Clark drew her down into a chair, and knelt beside her, lifting her quivering fingers to his lips and cheek. For a moment they remained thus, Cynthia in a silent ecstasy, pouring herself out through her finger tips. At a sound somewhere above them in the house, Clark got quickly to his feet.

“I suppose I ought to go,” he said, listening uneasily. “It’s pretty late.”

Yes, it was late. Cynthia held her breath to listen. Her father might come to the stairs to call her up to bed. There was no sound again. But Clark moved toward the door.

“I’d better go.”

Cynthia rose. Go? Now—? Her eyes alone made protest. At the door the boy stopped.

“Aren’t you going to say good-night?” he asked softly.

Cynthia clasped her cold hands. He was going, and in that way!

“Good-night.”

“That’s not the way, Cynthia.” He held his hands to her. “Here!”

She swayed, staring at him, held by a thread of sudden fear. With a sigh she broke the thread and ran to him, clinging to him, swinging up, up against his lips. Her own intensity frightened her, and she thought she was falling, until Clark released her, and she found herself standing in the entry, back in her own body. He was opening the door; she tried to say, “You will come again, soon—” but her lips would not move to the words.

“Good-night,” he whispered, and was gone.

She set the night-latch, snapped off the light, and climbed the stairs quite without volition. A voice as she reached the hall above startled her so that she stumbled. “Did you lock the door, Cynthia?” “Yes,” she answered, terrified lest her voice might betray her. But her mother called “Good-night,” and Cynthia, gaining her room, pushed the door shut and waited in the darkness for her heart to cease pounding in her throat. She undressed rapidly, her mind yearning ahead to the kind shelter of her bed. Finally she lay there, straight and motionless. She would go over the evening moment by moment. Deliberately she returned to the beginning. Suddenly through her body flickered this new emotion, and she turned, hiding her face in the pillow, pulling herself against the bed to quiet the frightening quivers that ran through her. This—this must be love itself! She felt the pillow wet under her cheek; she hadn’t known she had cried. She pressed her lips against it, moaning a little. It was wonderful, but terrifying, not to be understood. A crumpled leaf, she whirled up and up in the strong wind of desire she could neither see nor resist, until she slept.

Cynthia, the next day, struggled across the hours of a humdrum Sunday in a valorous attempt to pretend she was the same Cynthia. She was afraid someone would discover her secret; it glowed within her breast until she knew it must shine out and betray her. Not until after the late Sunday dinner, when under pretext of studying, she could retreat to her room with her books, was she free. Sitting by her window, her chin propped on her hands, she drifted quite clear of the tedium of the day.

In the early winter evening the doorbell sounded in the house below. Cynthia jumped to her feet, and flinging open her door, ran to the head of the stairs. Could it be—it was! She heard Clark ask for her. She was downstairs in an instant, flashing past her father into the entry. In a moment she was again in the sitting room, her head thrown high.

“Clark can stay just a little while.” Her voice defied her family. “We’re going out for a short walk.”

“You’ll freeze to death,” remarked her father, who was settling himself with his book.

“I’ve not been out all day.” Cynthia spoke quickly. “I’ll not be gone long.”

She pulled a cap over her hair, wound a scarf about her throat, and shaking herself into her coat, joined Clark in the little entry.

“Quick!” she whispered. “Before they decide it’s too cold.”

Out in the street the lassitude of the day lifted from her. She walked provokingly at the far edge of the sidewalk, chattering of everything which drifted into her head. At the corner she turned into a street recently laid out, and but little built up. Clark, his hands in his pockets, gave sulky answers to her flitting queries. Then her chattering snapped off, and there was no sound but the cold talk of snow under their feet. A man passed them, peering over his shoulder before he disappeared into the night. The snow-covered fields were faintly luminous, with here and there a light picking out the window of a distant house. Cynthia felt Clark moving more closely toward her; they were alone in the bare little street. He touched her arm, and then their cold lips, clinging together, grew warm and moist. They walked on again, Cynthia’s hand tight in Clark’s. She glanced shyly at him; she was saying to herself, “I love you—I love you.” Her lips tingled in the cold air; she felt radiant, as though her singing blood illumined her. She held her face up for a swift little kiss, laughing.

“I say—” Clark pressed her hand. “I’ve wanted to kiss you for a long time. I didn’t know you were like this.”

“Like what?” Cynthia wished she could see his face as he bent over her.

“Oh—liking to be kissed, you know.”

“I never have!” Cynthia drew back from his face, her voice low with an instinctive pride in the value of her gift to him.

“What? Never? Oh, come!”

Cynthia was troubled; he shouldn’t jest about this, even if he did wish to tease her. “Certainly not,” she said, gravely.

“Oh, well! Most girls do.”

“Do the girls you know?” Cynthia flung out the question as a recoil from the pain of his words.

“Why, yes.” Clark paused, and then blundered ahead. “It’s more fun going together then. Isn’t it?”

Cynthia shrank away from his arm.

“You mean—” and her voice was thin and white like her breath in the winter air—“You mean you do it—for fun?”

“Well, don’t you?” Clark demanded. “You let me,” he added uncomfortably.

Cynthia was hurrying along, head bent; she wanted to escape the ogre of realization which pursued, close at heel.

“Don’t go so fast!” Clark grasped her arm. “You—are you cross?”

“Cross?” Cynthia jerked out a little laugh. “I’m just cold. Let’s hurry home. It seems much colder.”

“Well, if you want to go home, that isn’t the way.” Clark failed in his attempt at facetiousness, but his words halted Cynthia. The slight wind drove the cold all into her heart. She couldn’t see where they had come.

“It’s back this way.” Clark wheeled. “If you are cold—”

Without waiting for the end of his sentence, Cynthia turned and ran past him, her scarf fluttering over her shoulder. “It’s warmer—running—” she panted, as she heard his feet close behind her.

“All right, come on!” She was scarcely aware that Clark thrust his arm through hers. The air stung her throat; her breath seemed to freeze before it reached her lungs. She ran and ran; where was the corner? The sidewalk began to lurch up to meet her feet. She stumbled, and Clark dragged her up.

“You’re all out of breath,” he gasped, but she only shook her head.

Just as her feet grew so heavy that she knew she couldn’t lift them, she saw ahead the dark mass of the elm which reached up to her window, and then across the snow, patches of light from the sitting room windows. Wrenching her arm free, she whirled ahead, up the steps to the door, where, her fingers clutching the handle, she faced the boy. Stronger than her need to escape, now, was her need to send him away unwitting, to fill his eyes with dust of some untruth, that he might not see her wound.

“I—beat—you!” She shrank against the door.

“You have to pay for that!” His quick breathing burned her cheek.

Her spirit doubled and twisted like a cornered wild thing. What could she say so that he would go—would go, not knowing? His hands were on her shoulders; she pushed them off.

“No! Not any more!” she cried. “You—you’ll have to run for your car. I hear it coming.”

“But Cynthia—little girl!” The throaty humoring protest was close in her face.

She turned the knob, and stepped into the open door.

“You can’t kiss me,” she said, distinctly. “I don’t think it’s much fun. It’s rather stupid. Good night.”

She closed the door and listened, in panic lest he follow her. After a moment she heard his feet, thoughtful, pausing once, and then descending the steps to the street.

She wheeled with a start as the inner door opened.

“I thought I heard you, Cynthia. What you doing here in the cold?” Her mother held the door wide. “Clark gone?”

“Yes.” Cynthia clenched her hands, as though to gather all her emotions there, secure from suspicion, until she could be alone. “Yes. He had to go. I’m just taking off my things.”

“Was it pretty cold?” Her mother lingered.

“Dreadfully.”

“You shouldn’t have gone out again tonight.”

Cynthia plunged desperately into the bright sitting room; there was no way to avoid the light. She was afraid to sit down there, where everything had happened last night. Her father and mother would guess!

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she said. The stairs beckoned to her. “I’m tired.”

“Are you sick, Cynthy?” Her mother’s voice came after her.

“No. Not a bit.” Cynthia was already halfway to the head of the stairs. “Just tired. Good-night.”

She wished to lock her door, but she feared lest someone discover that she had done that and demand her reason. So she turned on the light and began to undress, thankful as many older people have been, for the reprieve of a moment through an habitual act. Her shoestring had knotted; she pulled at it with a little sob, and it broke. At length she stood by her bed buttoning her flannel nightgown. Her body felt cold as she touched it with her hand; that was strange, when waves of heat were beating in her head. She climbed slowly into bed letting herself down into the cold sheets with a shudder.

Out of the confusion of emotions that blurred and moved at the horizon of her consciousness, one emerged, expanded, grew distinct, and scorched through her. She was ashamed, ashamed. “You let me!” Clark had accused her, and she had let him. More than that, she had wished him to love her—had worse than asked him. And he had thought it fun! She would have this shame to hide all her life. She must be very sinful, a girl who liked that—she could not think the word for the caresses—when there was no love behind them. Was this the way one’s heart broke? She pressed her fingers against her small breasts. She wouldn’t hide her face in her arm; that would be childish—she might even cry then. This was no young sorrow, to be melted in tears. Why had she been so shameless? Through her body quivered a poignant memory, unbidden, of Clark’s flushed face close to hers, of his lips. She drove the recollection away, the hot shame running up into her very eyelids.

“Oh, I don’t love him!” she cried. In a moment of white penetration, she caught back her former attitude toward the boy; she had accepted him with a thoughtless tolerance because he was jolly, and tall, and personable. She sat up in bed, her lips moving. “Oh, I don’t know why I did it!” Within her worked an inarticulate bewilderment that things without reality could seem so beautiful, could cause such emotion.

At the sound in the hall she dropped back against the pillow pulling the clothes up to her chin. As the door opened carefully she held her breath; she would pretend to sleep.

But her mother came in and sat down on the bed.

“I’ve brought you some hot cocoa, Cynthy,” she said, and Cynthia knew she was peering anxiously through the dimness. “You’ll sleep better.”

Cynthia could see the swirl of steam from the cup held toward her. She didn’t want it! But drinking it might be the quickest way to regain solitude. Propping herself on an elbow, she gulped recklessly choking a little as she tasted the thick sweetness. It brought tears into her eyes, but that, and the hot pain in her chest after she had swallowed, gave her a curious relief, as if she suffered in atonement for a sin. She lay down again, shrinking from her mother’s hand as it touched her forehead.

“You aren’t sick, Cynthia?”

“No, I said I wasn’t.”

“Is anything the matter?”

Cynthia’s heart gave a jump, and then ran into quick beating, in her breast, in her throat, in her temples. Had her mother heard—last night? Had she guessed?

“Why, no!” she exclaimed, and then added hastily, “What made you think so?”

“You haven’t had a quarrel with Clark?” Her mother’s voice was a worried, repressed caress.

“No.” Cynthia bit off her laugh suddenly; it felt as if it were about to run up into a scream. “We—we never quarrel. What would we quarrel about?”

“Well,” her mother sighed. “You aren’t going too far with him, are you? He isn’t worth it. Your father says he’s just a light-weight fellow.”

“I don’t know what you mean. You want me to have some fun, don’t you?”

She hadn’t meant to say quite that, and the phrase “some fun” was a hot wind, shrivelling her against the pillow. Remotely she heard her mother.

“Of course. But I don’t want anybody to make you unhappy. You’re too young for that sort of thing.”

Cynthia stared at her mother’s face, just visible in the streak of light from the hall lamp. “That sort of thing!” Then her mother knew—had some knowledge about things. Unconsciously Cynthia groped toward her; perhaps she would explain. Before her hand touched that of her mother, however, it dropped, checked by the old habit of inhibition. Her mother would not understand. She would say, “You are too young to think of such things.”

And when the mother, a little wistfully, brushed the hair from Cynthia’s forehead, and leaning over, kissed her cheek, Cynthia lay very still, struggling with a resentment which seemed disloyal, a resentment that these older people had knowledge they concealed so carefully.

Her mother rose.

“Good-night, dear. You were up too late last night, I guess. And you probably talked all the night before. Go right to sleep. I’ll call you in time tomorrow.”

In the doorway for an instant she paused, a rather weary silhouette; then Cynthia was alone again.

She was sleepier; the brief contact with her usual life had dulled the edge of her emotions. At any rate, no one knew. Clark didn’t know; he would think she had been playing with him. And her mother didn’t guess. She turned curling her arm under her head. Mary wouldn’t ask her questions. She opened her eyes for a moment. Did Mary know things, she wondered, except the feeling of them? She closed her heavy eyelids. “Am I very sinful,” she thought. Turning a little more, she pressed her eyes against her arm wondering dimly why the gold and blue spots danced about on her eyelids. Perhaps, if she understood more, she would become better. With a faint sigh she slept.