Dangerous topics kept coming to the fore in their conversation, dangerous with stirring April in the pulse of things, and two healthy youngsters alone together. Ned seemed to have ample afternoons to give. He was third year medical school, which should have meant work, but he claimed to have everything “stowed away” for the May finals. At any rate, the spring recess was near at hand; he could “plug up” then.
They tried out the courts on fine days. The ground was still soft, but by dint of much rolling they managed to get some practice; most of the time, however, they sat on the bench in the sun, and, warmly wrapped in woolens, breathed the exquisite air and talked. He grew dexterous in putting sleeves into coats, playing gentleman-in-waiting, and while ordinarily she resented anyone touching her, she found herself enjoying these little signs of fond care of her.
He had been smoothing out a collar and tucking a “sweater” snugly back of her ears, carefully brushing away the hair, and tapping each little ear jokingly. Meanwhile he had drawn out a log for her feet and with the aid of a steamer-rug had tucked her in comfortably.
“I feel like a mummy,” she laughed, and bathed contentedly in the warm sun.
“You look like a seraph,” he eyed her critically.
“Seraphs don’t have feet,” she corrected.
“What!” he exclaimed. “Don’t tell me that! Nor little, fat, brown ears, either?”
“Nope.”
“Nor crinkly, brown hair what won’t stay fixed?” he deftly put back a fluttering strand.
“Nope.”