"They could get another teacher."
"Could they?"
"Not one like you. You see I'm clumsy, but I'm crazy for you, Selma." Emboldened by the obvious feebleness of her opposition, he broadened his clutch and drew her toward him. "Say you will, sweetheart."
This time she pulled herself free and sat up in the chaise. "Would you let me do things?" she asked after a moment.
"Do things," faltered Babcock. What could she mean? She had told him on the way over that her mother had chosen her name from a theatrical playbill, and it passed through his unsophisticated brain that she might be thinking of the stage.
"Yes, do something worth while. Be somebody. I've had the idea I could, if I ever got the chance." Her hands were folded in her lap; there was a wrapt expression on her thin, nervous face, and a glitter in her keen eyes, which were looking straight at the moon, as though they would outstare it in brilliancy.
"You shall be anything you like, if you'll only marry me. What is it you're wishing to be?"
"I don't know exactly. It isn't anything especial yet. It's the whole thing. I thought I might find it in my school, but the experience so far hasn't been—satisfying."
"Troublesome little brats!"
"No, I dare say the fault's in me. If I went to Benham to live it would be different. Benham must be interesting—inspiring."