“Let’s go back to the beginning,” he suggested. “That’s somewhere toward the middle of my senior year. I’d known Frances before that, but about that time she came on to Boston, and we went to a whole lot of dances and things together.”
He paused a moment.
“I wish I’d brought a picture of her with me,” he resumed thoughtfully, “because she’s really a peach.”
Miss Winthrop looked up quickly. He was apparently serious.
“She’s tall and dark and slender,” he went on, “and when she’s all togged up she certainly looks like a queen. She had a lot of friends in town, and we kept going about four nights a week. Then came the ball games, and then Class Day. You ever been to Class Day?”
Miss Winthrop shook her head with a quick little jerk.
“It’s all music and Japanese lanterns, and if you’re sure of your degree it’s a sort of fairyland where nothing is quite real. You just feel at the time that it’s always going to be like that. It was then I asked her to marry me.”
Miss Winthrop was sitting with her chin in her hands, looking intently at the brick path leading to the house.
“You listening?”