Sheila’s heart was spinning, too. She had thrilled to the love-croon of the night. The landscape before her and beneath her seemed to be filled with dreams. But she was in love with love and not with Bret Winfield.
When she recognized that he was about to begin to initiate her by a familiar form of amorous hazing into the ancient society whose emblem is a spoon, she abruptly decided that she did not want to belong. Winfield became abruptly more of a stranger than ever.
Sheila did not want to hate this nice young man. She did not want to quarrel with her chauffeur so far from home at so compromising an hour. She did not want to wreck the heavenly night with idiotic combat. She hated the insincerity and perfunctoriness that must be the effect of any protest. She was actress enough to realize that the lines the situation required of her had long ago lost their effectiveness and their very sincerity.
But she did not want to be hugged. She loathed the thought of being touched by this man’s arm. She felt herself as precious and her body as holy as the lofty emotion of the night. Still, how could she protest till he gave her cause? He gave her cause.
Her very shoulder-blades winced as she felt Winfield’s arm close about her; she shivered as his big hand folded over her shoulder.
Sheila groped for appropriate words. Winfield’s big handsome face with the two dim lenses over his eyes was brought nearer and nearer to her cheek. Then, without giving him even the help of resistance, she inquired, quite casually:
“Is it true that they can send you to the penitentiary if you hit a man in the face when he’s wearing glasses?”
Sheila was as astounded as Winfield was at this most unexpected query. His lips paused at her very cheek to stammer:
“I don’t know. But why? What about it?”