IV.
That night Philip lay half smothered in his enormous feather bed, and thought again, this time in retrospect. He was a boy whom a nagging illness had kept secluded during most of his early life, and the previous Freshman year at college had filled him with restless new ideas. Adolescence, too long delayed, was upon him with a vengeance, at last.
“Good move, coming here ... she’s certainly one of the most naturally beautiful girls I ever saw ... skin a little off, perhaps.... Lord, how can people stand to eat sausages the way they do here ... we’ll have them to-morrow ... in July!
“Somehow I feel too overconfident.... God help us if she ever really falls in love with me ... still, I don’t quite see why that’s my lookout ... Don Juan....”
“See here, Philip Melton, you’re an ass!” (That was the voice of common sense, speaking in crisp periods.) “You’ve never kissed a girl in your life, and you’ve thought too much about it lately. You’ve always been too bashful to even flirt with sub-debs. And now that curiosity, not romance, has gotten hold of you, and you’ve achieved the enormous conquest of receiving a few sloppy letters from a country clergyman’s daughter, you think—! Don Juan, blaah!” (And common sense disgustedly retired.)
But Philip’s thoughts soon began to drift in the old channel. And egotism, which lies crushed into its corner during waking hours, came out and sported in the land of demi-dreams.
“She blushed once, really.... I saw her do it ... and she let me take her hand practically as long as I wanted to, to look at her ring.
“Oh Phil, you’re not so bad ... you’ll learn ... learn ... lllle....”
Sleep.