Hugh sighed and relaxed comfortably into his chair. The shadows were thick and mysterious behind them; the flames leaped merrily in the fireplace. Both boys sat silent, staring into the fire.
Finally Hugh spoke.
"I met a girt this summer, Carl," he said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Little peach. Awf'lly pretty. Dainty, you know. Awf'lly dainty—like a little kid. You know."
Carl had slumped down into his chair. He was smoking his pipe and staring pensively at the flames. "Un-huh. Go on."
"Well, I fell pretty hard. She was so—er, dainty. She always reminded me of a little girl playing lady. She had golden hair and blue eyes, the bluest eyes I've ever seen; oh, lots bluer than mine, lots bluer. And little bits of hands and feet."
Carl continued to puff his pipe and stare at the fire. "Pet?" he asked dreamily.
"Uh-huh. Yeah, she petted—but she was kinda funny—cold, you know, and kinda scared. Gee, Carl, I was crazy about her. I—I even wrote her a poem. I guess it wasn't very good, but I don't think she knew what it was about. I guess I'm off her now, though. She's too cold. I don't want a girl to fall over me—my last girl did that—but, golly, Carl, Janet didn't understand. I don't think she knows anything about love."
"Some of 'em don't," Carl remarked philosophically, slipping deeper into his chair. "They just pet."