“I fear I am reckless, Jane,” I said, wistfully. “I am not brave. I am reckless, and also desparate.”
“You poor darling!” she said, in a broken voice. “When I think of all you are suffering, and then see your smile, my Heart aches for you.”
We then went in and had some ice cream soda, which I paid for, Jane having nothing but a dollar, which she needed for a manacure. I also bought a key ring for Tom, feeling that he should have somthing of mine, a token, in exchange for the Frat pin.
I shall pass over lightly the following week, during which the Familey was packing for the country and all the servants were in a bad humer. In the mornings I took lessons driving the car, which I called the Arab, from the well-known song, which we have on the phonograph;
From the Dessert I come to thee,
On my Arab shod with fire.
The instructer had not heard the song, but he said it was a good name, because very likly no one else would think of having it.
“It sounds like a love song,” he observed.
“It is,” I replied, and gave him a steady glanse. Because, if one realy loves, it is silly to deny it.
“Long ways to a Dessert, isn’t it?” he inquired.
“A Dessert may be a place, or it may be a thirsty and emty place in the Soul,” I replied. “In my case it is Soul, not terratory.”