2:45 Our hands touched under the rug; I don’t think she knew it.
2:55 She likes Virginia and has been in our part of it.
3:05 She dropped her score-card. It went under the seat and she accepted mine.
3:15 She is going to make Everett give a tea in his room some afternoon. I am to be there.
3:30 She leaned across me to talk to her mother and her hair blew against my face. It smelled awfully sweet, like violets or—or something.
3:40 We all stood up and shouted and waved our arms. When we sat down again she let me tuck the rug about her. She laughed.
3:50 I am going to call some afternoon. And I am to go in for dinner some night; her mother asked me.
3:55 When we got up I found her score-card and she said I might keep it. I kept it. Harvard won. I don’t know the score.
If you were to remonstrate with Phillip about the incompleteness of this history of what was a great and, from a Harvard viewpoint, a glorious event, he would probably tell you to read the papers. And I shall do the same. In them you will find a very succinct and interesting account of that game, with all sorts of pictures made the day before and wonderful and confusing diagrams showing where the ball was every minute of the time. But they won’t tell you what Betty said when Phillip expressed a fear that she was cold, nor what Phillip answered when Betty asked him if he danced, nor how Betty looked when Phillip asked if she would mind very much if he called some old day. But, for that matter, neither will I.
Between the halves, when the day was already won and frantic wearers of the Crimson were shouting themselves hoarse, and delighted coaches were thumping each other’s shoulders and shaking hands on the slightest excuse; when the last of the liberated toy balloons were speeding off into the gray distance and the tramp, tramp of numbed feet made a martial accompaniment to the joyous talk and laughter, Everett Kingsford leaned over and addressed himself to Phillip.