“Nothing,” Ida laughed happily. “They are the cream; after that only riffraff like—like me; and I’m only a girl junior.” Again her soft laugh rippled out: “I’ve had the best time I ever had in my life, and I thank you for it.”
“Thank Miss Carter.”
“I do. But she would never have heard of me except for you. Good-by.”
It was a mile further to the nursery but Sydney walked. He would not take a car—face people. He wanted to arrive after Max, creep to his room, and have it out with himself.
But Max, too, had walked, wishing to be alone under the stars. And they arrived in their street at the same time.
Max was elated. His every step betrayed it. He strode along as if shod with springs, and his voice thrilled with a new note. “Isn’t she great?”
“Who? Miss Smith?” Sydney knew Max did not mean May Nell.
“No, no. She’s lovely to look at and I guess lovely to know; I didn’t notice her much. It’s Miss Carter I mean. There’s a real musician.”
“Is that all you think she is? She’s much more than that,” Sydney defended.
“All! All? To be a real musician is to have tasted divine fire.”