“And then the verse he wrote afterward,” said Gladys, hastening to uphold Hinpoha. “That proves he is in earnest. And, anyway, it must be true. Didn’t all the fortunes say he was fair and his initials were D. K., and he was a great scholar, and would be president, and he would fall in love with Hinpoha’s hair?” And Katherine had to admit that whatsoever was written in the stars was written.
It mattered little to any of them, Hinpoha least of all, that Professor Knoblock had thus far said nothing openly upon the subject to Hinpoha.
“Isn’t his bashfulness adorable?” cooed Gladys. “He’s too shy to express himself face to face with her; he puts all his—his passion into writing.”
“Won’t those notes be lovely to read over together when you’re old?” said Sahwah, also stricken with a sentimental fit. But at the mere mention of such a thing Hinpoha fled with burning cheeks.
“Hello, Red,” said a cheerful voice in her ear, as she went dreaming down the street one day. “Where have you been keeping yourself for the last few weeks? You haven’t been down in the gym once.”
“Hello, Captain,” she said sweetly. (How young he was, she was thinking. How hopelessly kiddish beside the manly form of Professor Knoblock!)
“Say, you must have your tin ear on today,” remarked the Captain jovially. “I had to call you three times before you answered.”
“I was thinking,” said Hinpoha, and blushed.
“Must have been an awful hard think,” remarked the Captain, stooping to throw a stone at a cat. (He’s nothing but a kid, thought Hinpoha for the second time.)
It was on this occasion that the Captain, happily believing all was well between himself and Hinpoha, invited her to go to the Senior dance at Washington High with him.