She looked into his eyes for a moment, then dropped her lashes. Eugene's brain swirled with the sense of her beauty. It was the old talisman. He covered her sweet lips with his own and she yielded feverishly.
"There now, eat your dough," she exclaimed when he let her go, pushing it shamefacedly toward him. She was flustered—so much so that she failed to jest about it. "What would Mrs. Witla think," she added, "if she could see us?"
Eugene paused solemnly and listened. He was afraid of Angela.
"I've always liked this stuff, ever since I was a boy," he said in an offhand way.
"So your mother said," replied Frieda, somewhat recovered. "Let me see what you're painting." She came round to his side and he took her hand. "I'll have to go now," she said wisely. "They'll be expecting me back."
Eugene speculated on the intelligence of girls—at least on that of those he liked. Somehow they were all wise under these circumstances—cautious. He could see that instinctively Frieda was prepared to protect him and herself. She did not appear to be suffering from any shock from this revelation. Rather she was inclined to make the best of it.
He folded her in his arms again.
"You're the angel cake and the strawberries and the peaches and cream," he said.
"Don't!" she pleaded. "Don't! I have to go now."
And when he released her she ran quickly down the stairs, giving him a swift, parting smile.