He nodded. "Sterilized—Pasteurized—boiled out of us. I suppose," he sighed, "we are more hygienic, but we have faded in the process. It dulls romance to Pasteurize it."
She held up a staying hand.
"Please!" she said, "in words of one syllable and maybe you can convince me. But you can't. Do you mean to say there are no sweet, blushing girls left, with—with dreams?"
Again his sigh. It pained him to disillusion her.
"Not blushing ones. I tell you the color won't stand our modern sterilization process. I misdoubt the dreams, too. If they dream 'em, they're of independence and careers and votes; you wouldn't call those romantic dreams, would you? The little 'clinging vines'—" he waved them back into the past with a comprehensive sweep of his hand—"all gone. Our present-day soil is too invigorating, too stimulating. The young things stand up on their own roots. No more clinging. Each one aspires to be a spunky little tree by herself. Look at 'em and see for yourself—the subways and elevateds are full of 'em at the crush hours, nights and mornings—all glorying in their independence—their fine, strong, young roots. No blushing, no clinging there! Are you convinced?"
"I am not," flashed Miss Theodosia gamely. "There must be one little dreamer of love dreams left."
"Show her to me."
"That isn't fair. I'm not in a way to know girls. I know just Stefana."
"And Evangeline."
"And Evangeline," laughed Miss Theodosia.