"I can't talk any softer and have you hear unless I put my head up closer. Can I?"
"Of course, you may not. Don't be so silly."
"I didn't mean to be fresh. You're not cross, are you, Sylvia?"
It seemed to her as if the "show" would never end. Chagrin and resentment overcame her. What had possessed her to come to this hot, stuffy place with Thomas, instead of reading French in her peaceful, pleasant sitting-room with Austin? Why didn't Austin show more eagerness to be with her, anyway? She liked to be with him—ever and ever so much—didn't see half so much of him as she wanted to. There was no use beating about the bush. It was perfectly true. She was growing fonder of him, and more dependent on him, every day. And every other man she had ever known had been grateful for her least favor, while he—Her hurt pride seemed to stifle her. She was very close to tears. She was jerked back to composure by the happy voice of Thomas.
"My, but that was a thriller! Come on over to the drug-store, Sylvia, and have an ice-cream cone."
"I'm not hungry," said Sylvia, rising, "and it must be getting awfully late. I'd rather go straight home."
Thomas, though disappointed, saw no choice. But once off the brilliantly lighted "Main Street," and lumbering down the road towards Hamstead, he decided not to put off the great moment, for which he had been waiting, any longer. Wondering why his stomach seemed to be caving in so, he tactfully began.
"Did you know I was going to be twenty-one next month, Sylvia?" he asked.
"No," said Sylvia absently; "that is, I had forgotten. You seem more like eighteen to me."
This was a somewhat crushing beginning. But Thomas was not daunted.