We stopped in the road, and I looked him square in the eye. I can look anybody in the eye. I looked at him straight, till he laughed and moved on. He seemed to be thinking about something.
"I think I like you best when you sing," he said. "Won't you sing something else?"
"Sure," I says, and wheeled around in the road, and kind of skipped backward. And I sung:
"Oh, oh, oh, oh! Pull down the blinds!
When they hear the organ play-ing
They won't know what we are say-ing.
Pull down the blinds!"
I'd heard it to the motion-picture show the week before. I was thankful he could see I was up on the nice late tunes.
"I wonder," says the man, "if you can tell me something. I wonder if you can tell me what made you pick out this song to sing to me, and what made you sing that other song when you were alone?"
All at once the morning come back. Ever since I met him I'd forgot the morning and the sun, and the way I'd felt when I started out alone. I'd just been thinking about myself, and about how I could make him think I was cute and up-to-date. Now it was just as if the country road opened up again, and there I was on it, opposite the Dew Drop Inn, just being me. I looked up at him.