Meadows blushed. “I’m older than you think, perhaps. But I used to be something of a child prodigy. I was fifteen when I graduated from high school and I did college in three years. So, you see, I’m not hopelessly old yet.”
“And when you get back?”
“Oh, there’s so much to do. Father and mother were shocked when I took up nursing and again when I left for France. But I think they’ve become reconciled. You see they expected me to fit smoothly into their little social scheme.”
Meadows sketched her career with illuminating, humorous sidelights.
Her first revolt had come when she insisted on entering the University of Wisconsin instead of an Eastern girls’ college and had elected to major in sociology, with economics as her minor. Shock two came when she turned down the bid of the Kappas—at that particular time the most desirable sorority—and denounced fraternities and sororities for their snobbishness before her “lit” society. Then she had joined the students’ Socialist society, taken part in organizing a daily newspaper that would be free from faculty control, and joined the staff of a monthly magazine, started in opposition to the Literary Magazine, for the purpose of supporting free verse, modernist literature and art and, principally, of poking fun at the conservatism of the professors.
“Of course, I’ve gotten over most of my enthusiasms,” she laughed. “It was simply a stage in my growth. But I’m still pretty radical, I guess, for my people—and for you. I’m not even a Socialist now, although at one time I was on the verge of anarchism and used to hear Emma Goldman every time she came to Madison. But, at least, I am a liberal.”
She suddenly broke off.
“But, of course, this doesn’t interest you. You’re probably wondering whether I’ve spoiled my complexion by going in for all these things instead of taking vocal lessons and—I was going to say French—but I’ve learned French at that. I’ll bet you’re wondering right now more how I managed to get through school so young without wearing glasses and looking like a freak.”
Hamilton started. It was exactly what he had been thinking.
He had been watching her lips and eyes as much as attending to her words. It was a dangerous game, he knew, but he was being carried along by a tide stronger than he could stem. Suddenly a bell tinkled, announcing the closing of the gates. It was growing dusk. Hamilton bent down and kissed her. She lifted her arms and raised her lips to his, and for as long as one can hold one’s breath they remained thus.