She smiled almost wearily and shook her head. "You are a good egg, Hugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don't love me. You did yesterday, but you don't now. Do you realize that you haven't asked to kiss me to-day?"
Hugh flushed and stammered: "I—I've got an awful hang-over, Cynthia. I feel rotten."
"Yes, I know, but that isn't why you didn't want to kiss me. I know all about it. Listen, Hugh." She faced him bravely. "I've been running with a fast crowd for three years, and I've learned a lot about fellows; and most of 'em that I've known weren't your kind. How old are you?"
"Twenty-one in a couple of months."
"I'm twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I've been crazy about you—I guess I am kinda yet—and I know that you thought you were in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time. That's all that mattered. It was—was your body, Hugh. You're sweet and fine, and I respect you, but I'm not the kid for you to run around with. I'm too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I've done a lot of thinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well, that's all we want each other for. We're not in love."
A phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh's mind. "You mean—sex attraction?" he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real—and everything was a little sad.
"Yes, that's it—and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don't want that with you. We're not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your letters. Sometimes I hardly understood them, but I'd close my eyes and see you so strong and blond and clean, and I'd imagine you were holding me tight—and—and then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love you, but we've spoiled it." She wanted desperately to cry but bit her lip and held back her tears.
"I think I know what you mean, Cynthia," Hugh said softly. "I don't know much about love and sex attraction and that sort of thing, but I know that I was happier kissing you than I've ever been in my life. I—I wish that last night hadn't happened. I hate myself."
"You needn't. It was more my fault than yours. I'm a pretty bad egg, I guess; and the booze and you holding me was too much. I hate myself, too. I've spoiled the nicest thing that ever happened to me." She looked up at him, her eyes bright with tears. "I did love you, Hugh. I loved you as much as I could love any one."
Hugh put his arms around her and drew her to him. Then he bent his head and kissed her gently. There was no passion in his embrace, but there was infinite tenderness. He felt spiritually and physically weak, as if all his emotional resources had been quite spent.