"Is she as much of a social success as you?" asked Harry with that frankness that was characteristic of their relation.
"Much more so—in a way. She uses her gifts to much more effect."
"She's not nearly as good-looking as you," persisted Harry.
It was a remark thoroughly in keeping with the spirit of their comradeship, the kind of remark, expressive of a plain truth, nothing more, that they prided themselves on making and taking between themselves without the least affectation or self-consciousness. Yet Beatrice simply could not keep pleasure from sounding in her voice as she replied:
"Well, no; I suppose not. It's the only thing in which I have the better of her, though. I'm very—"
She began her reply in the old spirit, but could not keep it up. She had started to say, "I'm very glad you think that," then stopped herself, then wished she had gone on. It would have been perfectly consistent with their old "man-to-man" attitude, if she could have said it in the right way!
Harry noticed her halting, and looked up at her quickly. He saw that she was blushing. "Good Heavens!" he thought; "I hope Beatrice doesn't think I'm paying her compliments!" The incident was slight, but it brought a new and disturbing element into their relation. Indeed, in that one little moment they ceased to remain boy and girl in their attitude toward one another, and became man and woman. They met often enough on the old terms of frankness and intimacy, but sex interest and suspicion always lurked in the background, ready to burst out and break up things at any moment.
The spring wore on; Commencement arrived; James was graduated. Aunt Miriam, the James Wimbournes and numerous youthful James Wimbournes came to stay with Aunt Selina and see him graduate. Beatrice was also there and Harry was of course on hand. He took little part in the graduation festivities and amused himself chiefly by showing his two eldest male cousins, Oswald and Jack, the sights of the university and incidentally making them look forward with a healthy dread to the day when as freshmen first they would come to Yale.
"This is the swimming-pool," he would tell them; "it doesn't look very big now, does it? Perhaps not! But it seems pretty big, I can tell you, when the sophomores dump you in there, in the pitch dark, and tell you it's half a mile to shore and you've got to swim! And you have to scramble out as best you can. They won't help you!"
"They don't do that to every freshman, though, do they?" hopefully inquired Oswald, a nice, plump, yellow-haired, wide-eyed youth of fourteen or so, the image of his mother.