One day Miss Murgatroyd was expatiating to the mother of a prospective pupil upon the wonderful effects of coeducation in calming the passions. “The boys and girls grow up together, get used to each other, and there’s never any nonsense between them.”
“And don’t they—well, take an interest in each other?”
“Not in that way. Not in any undesirable way. Such as they would if they had been morbidly separated.”
“But it seems almost unnatural for them not to take an interest.”
“Experience, I can assure you, shows otherwise,” said Miss Murgatroyd conclusively.
At that moment two figures, gravely conversing together, passed across the lawn in the middle distance; one was a well-grown girl of thirteen in a short-skirted gymnasium dress, the other a nice-looking boy of ten, knickerbockered, bare-legged, sandalled, and wearing the art green blouse of the school. They looked the most open-air and unsophisticated children of modernity it was possible to conceive. This is what they were saying:
“Sydney, when I grow up I’m going to marry you. You got to be my sweetheart. See?”
“You darling! Is that what you have to tell me? I didn’t think you loved me a little bit.”
“I’m going to marry you,” said Peter, sticking to the facts of the case.
“I’d hug you. Only old Muggy is looking out of the window. But the very first chance I get I’ll kiss you. And you’ll have to kiss me back, mind, Peter.”