At the rear gate, Phœbe went on a few steps alone, and then halted to wait. She was not near enough to catch what the man and Sophie said: she could hear only the murmur of their voices. Overhead the stars were low and bright. The trees swayed in the night wind. Yet Phœbe was not thrilled. She did not feel that romance was in the air—not romance such as “Airy, Fairy Lillian” held—not by any means the kind of romance that she had just enjoyed at the theatre. She wished only that Sophie would not be silly, and would hurry up. It was late. Phœbe dreaded the climb in the dark to her room.
But no feeling either of fear or remorse troubled her as she prepared for bed. She had gained her room without discovery. And as it would never occur to any one of the family to suspect that she might steal out of an evening, there was no reason to fret about the next day. She said her prayers hastily and sleepily. And she did not ask for forgiveness because she had been to the moving-pictures. They were her right. They rounded out that all but perfect day that she exclaimed over while she unlaced her shoes.
Two nights later, she and Sophie went again, and again she saw the man. This time he summoned enough courage to take a seat beside Sophie in the theatre. And when the lights went down, he held Sophie’s hand. That Phœbe did not like at all. It was all right on the screen, of course—holding hands. But with Sophie! And so close! It did not seem nice.
“Sally never acted like that,” Phœbe told herself.
Also at the rear gate, as they were returning, the man grew bolder. So did Sophie. From a considerate distance, Phœbe saw the two embrace—saw their faces touch.
At that, Phœbe turned and walked away. She was angered.
But when Sophie joined her, giggling and whispering, she made no comment. Only she resolved that she would not go out at night with Sophie again if the man was to accompany them home. And before she lay down in the dark to sleep, she said a little prayer about it, and promised that she would not break her resolve.
But a few nights later, a change of program brought the moving-picture version of a play that she had seen acted in New York by men and women who spoke their lines. It was a temptation too great to resist. “Just this once more,” vowed Phœbe.
The vow was to be kept—so far as this particular theatre, and this town, was concerned; but not kept in the way Phœbe had meant.
The picture was wonderful. She had so much to tell Sophie—of the differences between the play as it was flashed upon the cloth before them and as it was on the speaking stage. She was joyous and excited. When the man came, as before, she was even glad, for it was nice to be able to lean across Sophie and tell him about the differences. No regret for having broken her resolve troubled her.