“My, but you think a lot!” Delia applauded admiringly.
“It’s time men began to think,” resumed Jim, encouraged. “It’s the duty of citizens to think and act. The good men stay away from the polls and let things slide, and the bad element gets in its dirty work, and the poor suffer. When I’m old enough to vote I’m never going to miss—”
“Why, aren’t you twenty-one yet?” put in Delia.
Jim was abashed.
“I’m only seventeen past,” he admitted reluctantly.
“You look at least twenty-two or three,” she insisted.
Jim was pleased and grateful.
“And you understand things so well. I like to hear you explain them, but I can’t talk—only about women’s things.” Delia looked demure.
Jim, who as a rule talked little on any subject, was uncomfortable over having expressed himself so freely. Delia changed the subject again.
“Have you seen Will Bennett since his wife died?” she inquired.
“No,” replied Jim, relieved.
“I saw him yesterday on the street,” said she. “Did you go to the funeral?”
“No,” answered Jim again.
“He looked as chipper as a sparrow. That’s the way men are. The funeral was beautiful,” and Delia launched into a minute description of the obsequies, Jim listening attentively.
“I really must go,” he declared, at last, rising once more as she concluded, and extending his hand.
“Well, you must drop in again to see me,” she invited, holding his hand as she spoke. “I’ve enjoyed it immensely.”
“Thank you. So have I,” returned Jim.
She released him as he took his hat from the table, and followed him to the door.
“Don’t forget,” she smiled.
“I’ll not forget,” he smiled back.
When Jim returned to the store Mr. Sprague looked up from his ledger.
“It took you a long time to deliver those fixtures,” he grumbled.
“I—I didn’t come right back,” stammered Jim.
Mr. Sprague scrutinized his son’s flushed face.
“I should think you didn’t. Well, next time you come right back! Do you hear?”
Jim passed behind the counter without replying.
Jim remembered his promise to Delia. He thought of her almost constantly during his waking hours. The day following his visit he walked past her house. The plumbers were laying gas pipe from the street through the yard. He did not see Delia and went on.
“It’s too soon yet,” he said to himself.
The next day he passed the house again. The window shutters were all closed and he did not ring the bell, telling himself that Delia was not at home. He continued to pass the house once or twice every day, without asking for admittance, wondering each time if she were there, or if someone else were with her, or if she really meant that she wanted him to come again. He was amazed that such a beautiful woman had remained without remarrying. He had decided that the slurs cast on her reputation were unjust. She was too innocent-hearted and Bohemian. The narrow minded people who made up the population of the town could not understand her. Jim found her like the heroine of a French novel he had been reading. He dreamed about her at night.
About three o’clock in the afternoon, a week after his first visit, he passed her house as usual and saw no sign of life. He proceeded down the street and walked a block or two. Then he retraced his steps. As he came by the house again he heard someone call his name. Before he could decide what to do the curtains in a window were parted and Delia’s smiling face confronted him.
“Why don’t you come in, Jim?” she called.
He hesitated.
“Wait, and I’ll unlock the door,” she added, and, with a final smile, left the window.
Jim entered the gate, and had not crossed the small lawn when the door was opened.
“You mean thing! You wouldn’t have come in at all if I hadn’t called to you!” was her greeting.
“I thought you weren’t at home,” he explained.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” she said, shutting the door. “You’re here anyway. I’ve been wondering what had become of you. I thought you had gone out of town. Sit down and tell me about yourself,” she invited, leading the way to the sitting room he remembered so well. “Here! Give me your hat. You’re at home here.”
Jim was surprised to feel himself suddenly at ease.
Delia chatted volubly, smiling and laughing, without giving him an opportunity to talk about himself. She produced a flattering atmosphere of dependence and admiration that led Jim unconsciously to assume the part of the conquering male.
“You didn’t really forget me, did you?” she asked, her ingratiating manner anticipating his reply.
“Not quite,” Jim told her with newfound assurance.
Delia gazed into his eyes a moment and came over to his chair and, bending down, put her cheek against his.
“You didn’t, did you, Jim?” she repeated in a whisper.
He drew her to him and kissed her on the mouth.
Delia was in a fresh wrapper, with her beautiful hair becomingly arranged, and a scent of violets clung about her. Jim was considerably surprised at his own passion.
“You naughty boy!” she cried, laughing. Then she sat on his knees and pulled his hair. Jim kissed her again.
This was the beginning of frequent visits which soon became daily.
“I see you’re hanging around that Johnson woman,” Jim’s father remarked one evening at supper.
Jim turned pale, then red, and poured himself some more tea without replying.
“You stay away from there. Do you hear?” the elder Sprague went on.
“I hear, but I’ll do as I see fit,” retorted Jim.
“You’ll do as I see fit, or I’ll know the reason why,” snapped his father.
“Father,” began Jim, “I’m old enough to—”
“Old enough be damned!” Mr. Sprague fairly roared. “You’re old enough to do what I tell you until you’re twenty-one years old, and that ain’t all—you’ll do what you’re told, if you expect to stay in my house!”
Jim rose and seized his hat.
“I don’t intend to have you running around with a bitch like that at your age,” continued the older man, as though closing the discussion.
“You have no right to call her that!” Jim’s eyes flamed as he faced his
