This Side of Paradise [28]
corners with: "You might let me get more than an inch!" and "She didn't like it eithershe told me so next time I cut in." It was trueshe told every one so, and gave every hand a parting pressure that said: "You know that your dances are making my evening." But time passed, two hours of it, and the less subtle beaux had better learned to focus their pseudo-passionate glances elsewhere, for eleven o'clock found Isabelle and Amory sitting on the couch in the little den off the reading-room up-stairs. She was conscious that they were a handsome pair, and seemed to belong distinctively in this seclusion, while lesser lights fluttered and chattered down-stairs.
Boys who passed the door looked in enviouslygirls who passed only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves.
They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded accounts of their progress since they had met last, and she had listened to much she had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He learned that some of the boys she went with in Baltimore were "terrible speeds" and came to dances in states of artificial stimulation; most of them were twenty or so, and drove alluring red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have already flunked out of various schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic names that made him look at her admiringly. As a matter of fact, Isabelle's closer acquaintance with the universities was just commencing. She had bowing acquaintance with a lot of young men who thought she was a "pretty kidworth keeping an eye on." But Isabelle strung the names into a fabrication of gayety that would have dazzled a Viennese nobleman. Such is the power of young contralto voices on sink-down sofas.
He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was a difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored self-confidence in men.
"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked.
"Rather-why?"
"He's a bum dancer."
Amory laughed.
"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms."
She appreciated this.
"You're awfully good at sizing people up."
Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for her. Then they talked about hands.
"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played the piano. Do you?"
I have said they had reached a very definite stage-nay, more, a very critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket.
"Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you something." They had been talking lightly about "that funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle knew from the change in his manner what was comingindeed, she had been wondering how soon it would come. Amory reached above their heads and turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. Then he began:
"I don't know whether or not you know what youwhat I'm going to say. Lordy, Isabelle-this sounds like a line, but it isn't." "I know," said Isabelle softly.
"Maybe we'll never meet again like this-I have darned hard luck sometimes." He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the lounge, but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark. "You'll meet me again-silly." There was just the slightest emphasis on the last wordso that it became almost a term of endearment. He continued a bit huskily:
"I've fallen for a lot of people-girls-and I guess you have, too-boys, I mean, but, honestly, you" he broke off suddenly and leaned forward, chin on his hands: "Oh, what's the use-you'll go your way and I suppose I'll go mine."
Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming
Boys who passed the door looked in enviouslygirls who passed only laughed and frowned and grew wise within themselves.
They had now reached a very definite stage. They had traded accounts of their progress since they had met last, and she had listened to much she had heard before. He was a sophomore, was on the Princetonian board, hoped to be chairman in senior year. He learned that some of the boys she went with in Baltimore were "terrible speeds" and came to dances in states of artificial stimulation; most of them were twenty or so, and drove alluring red Stutzes. A good half seemed to have already flunked out of various schools and colleges, but some of them bore athletic names that made him look at her admiringly. As a matter of fact, Isabelle's closer acquaintance with the universities was just commencing. She had bowing acquaintance with a lot of young men who thought she was a "pretty kidworth keeping an eye on." But Isabelle strung the names into a fabrication of gayety that would have dazzled a Viennese nobleman. Such is the power of young contralto voices on sink-down sofas.
He asked her if she thought he was conceited. She said there was a difference between conceit and self-confidence. She adored self-confidence in men.
"Is Froggy a good friend of yours?" she asked.
"Rather-why?"
"He's a bum dancer."
Amory laughed.
"He dances as if the girl were on his back instead of in his arms."
She appreciated this.
"You're awfully good at sizing people up."
Amory denied this painfully. However, he sized up several people for her. Then they talked about hands.
"You've got awfully nice hands," she said. "They look as if you played the piano. Do you?"
I have said they had reached a very definite stage-nay, more, a very critical stage. Amory had stayed over a day to see her, and his train left at twelve-eighteen that night. His trunk and suitcase awaited him at the station; his watch was beginning to hang heavy in his pocket.
"Isabelle," he said suddenly, "I want to tell you something." They had been talking lightly about "that funny look in her eyes," and Isabelle knew from the change in his manner what was comingindeed, she had been wondering how soon it would come. Amory reached above their heads and turned out the electric light, so that they were in the dark, except for the red glow that fell through the door from the reading-room lamps. Then he began:
"I don't know whether or not you know what youwhat I'm going to say. Lordy, Isabelle-this sounds like a line, but it isn't." "I know," said Isabelle softly.
"Maybe we'll never meet again like this-I have darned hard luck sometimes." He was leaning away from her on the other arm of the lounge, but she could see his eyes plainly in the dark. "You'll meet me again-silly." There was just the slightest emphasis on the last wordso that it became almost a term of endearment. He continued a bit huskily:
"I've fallen for a lot of people-girls-and I guess you have, too-boys, I mean, but, honestly, you" he broke off suddenly and leaned forward, chin on his hands: "Oh, what's the use-you'll go your way and I suppose I'll go mine."
Silence for a moment. Isabelle was quite stirred; she wound her handkerchief into a tight ball, and by the faint light that streamed over her, dropped it deliberately on the floor. Their hands touched for an instant, but neither spoke. Silences were becoming