“Will you help me bring up my trunk?” he asked half shyly.
“Oh, hell, yes. I’d forgotten all about that. Come on.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, arranging and rearranging the furniture and pictures. They found a restaurant and had dinner. Then they returned to 19 Surrey and rearranged the furniture once more, pausing occasionally to chat while Carl smoked. He offered Hugh a cigarette. Hugh explained that he did not smoke, that he was a sprinter and that the coaches said that cigarettes were bad for a runner.
“Right-o,” said Carl, respecting the reason thoroughly. “I can’t run worth a damn myself, but I’m not bad at tennis—not very good, either. Say, if you’re a runner you ought to make a fraternity easy. Got your eye on one?”
“Well,” said Hugh, “my father’s a Nu Delt.”
“The Nu Delts. Phew! High-hat as hell.” He looked at Hugh enviously. “Say, you certainly are set. Well, my old man never went to college, but I want to tell you that he left us a whale of a lot of jack when he passed out a couple of years ago.”
“What!” Hugh exclaimed, staring at him in blank astonishment.
In an instant Carl was on his feet, his flashing eyes dimmed by tears. “My old man was the best scout that ever lived—the best damned old scout that ever lived.” His sophistication was all gone; he was just a small boy, heartily ashamed of himself and ready to cry. “I want you to know that,” he ended defiantly.
At once Hugh was all sympathy. “Sure, I know,” he said softly. Then he smiled and added, “So’s mine.”
Carl’s face lost its lugubriousness in a broad grin. “I’m a fish,” he announced. “Let’s hit the hay.”
“You said it!”
II
Hugh wrote two letters before he went to bed, one to his mother and father and the other to Helen Simpson. His letter to Helen was very brief, merely a request for her photograph.
Then, his mind in a whirl of excitement, he went to bed and lay awake dreaming, thinking of Carl, the college, and, most of all, of Helen and his walk with her the day before.
He had called on her to say goodbye. They had been “going together” for a year, and she was generally considered his girl. She was a pretty child with really beautiful brown hair, which she had foolishly bobbed, lively blue eyes, and an absurdly tiny snub nose. She was little, with quick, eager hands—a shallow creature who was proud to be seen with Hugh because he had been captain of the high-school track team. But she did wish that he wasn’t so slow. Why, he had kissed her only once, and that had been a silly peck on the cheek. Perhaps he was just shy, but sometimes she was almost sure that he was “plain dumb.”
They had walked silently along the country road to the woods that skirted the town. An early frost had already touched the foliage with scarlet and orange. They sat down on a fallen log, and Hugh gazed at a radiant maple-tree.
Helen let her hand drop lightly on his. “Thinking of me?” she asked softly.
Hugh squeezed her hand. “Yes,” he whispered, and looked at the ground while he scuffed some fallen leaves with the toe of his shoe.
“I am going to miss you, Hughie—oh, awfully. Are you going to miss me?”
He held her hand tightly and said nothing. He was aware only of her hand. His throat seemed to be stopped, choked with something.
A bird that should have been on its way south chirped from a tree near by. The sound made Hugh look up. He noticed that the shadows were lengthening. He and Helen would have to start back pretty soon or he would be late for dinner. There was still packing to do; his mother had said that his father wanted to have a talk with him—and through all his thoughts there ran like a fiery red line the desire to kiss the girl whose hand was clasped in his.
He turned slightly toward her. “Hughie,” she whispered and moved close to him. His heart stopped as he loosened her hand from his and put his arm around her. With a contented sigh she rested her head on one shoulder and her hand on the other. “Hughie dear,” she breathed softly.
He hesitated no longer. His heart was beating so that he could not speak, but he bent and kissed her. And there they sat for half an hour more, close in each other’s embrace, speaking no words, but losing themselves in kisses that seemed to have no end.
Finally Hugh realized that darkness had fallen. He drew the yielding girl to her feet and started home, his arm around her. When they reached her gate, he embraced her once more and kissed her as if he could never let her go. A light flashed in a window. Frightened, he tried to leave, but she clung to him.
“I must go,” he whispered desperately.
“I’m going to miss you awfully.” He thought that she was weeping—and kissed her again. Then as another window shot light into the yard, he forced her arms from around his neck.
“Goodbye, Helen. Write to me.” His voice was rough and husky.
“Oh, I will. Goodbye—darling.”
He walked home tingling with emotion. He wanted to shout; he felt suddenly grown up. Golly, but Helen was a little peach. He felt her arms around his neck again, her lips pressed maddeningly to his. For an instant he was dizzy. …
As he lay in bed in 19 Surrey thinking of Helen, he tried to summon that glorious intoxication again. But he failed. Carl, the college, registration—a thousand thoughts intruded themselves. Already Helen seemed far away, a little nebulous. He wondered why. …
III
For the next few
