They had the ice to themselves now, and as they swept down the clear, wide stretch they
were unutterably happy. At least Billy was. He didn’t know that the sudden change in her attitude was due to the fact that he had established his favor with the best girls of the college that morning. If he had known he might have appreciated the kindness of the committee girl even more.
Miss Evison explained her high spirits on the ground that she was going home that night. Mother and Dad had both written that they were dying to see her—that was the worst of being an only child. She had an inkling that Dad was getting her a little runabout for Christmas, sort of a bribe to keep her from wanting to go back to the city next year. Oh, yes, they had a farm—just a hobby, of course. Oh, no, they didn’t live on it. They had a house in the nearest town; there were several congenial families living there, and it was near enough to the city to go in to a show when there was anything really good. But, oh, she loved the country—just loved it.
And what did she think of the college? She loved it, too. She would be sorry when her year was up. She had met some of the dearest girls, and she had had a perfectly lovely time. She hadn’t wanted to come in the first place, but Dad had just insisted; he said she was going far too fast at home—it really was hard to get an evening in, because there were some very nice people in the town, for the size of it, and she was so fond
of company and excitement. She could just live on it. She told him, with the naivete of a child, of her many amusing culinary disasters, after she had begun to study household science; how the last time she was at home she had insisted on getting tea on the maid’s afternoon off; how the souffle had fallen flat and she had forgotten to put the cream of tartar in the biscuits.
When she suddenly remembered that she had an engagement in the afternoon, Billy took off her skates something after the manner of a slave kneeling at the feet of the Queen of Sheba.
“Just to think,” she chattered, “our last skate this year, and I’ve talked all about myself. The next time you must tell me all about your affairs, and your holidays, and everything.”
Billy smiled and looked away. He realized painfully how difficult it would be to tell this beautiful, irresponsible, “delicately-reared” girl anything about himself or his holidays or anything.
When he opened the Hall door for her she drew from her muff her smooth, supple little hand without even its glove, held it out to him warmly, and left him thrilling from the contact. She rushed upstairs glowing; she had had a glorious time and there were a thousand more glorious times ahead of her—not with Billy—oh, dear no. She confided to a circle of her dearest girl friends that he was “all right in an agricultural setting,” he was “awfully handsome in
his lumbering yeoman style,” he was “splendid to have looking at you with his sober eyes, as though you were a Madonna, or an actress, or something,” but Billy “transplanted to a circle of the class of people a girl would want to live with—heavens!”