looking at her watch with feigned alarm. “That poor man won’t know whether he’s coming or going! I am awful!” And she beamed her mischievous-child best at Eleanor Thorne, but the other was still disturbed. “Barbara,” she said evenly, “a girl as attractive as you are should be very careful, where men are concerned, very careful.”
“ I’ll say!” said Babs, knowingly grave at the door, caught up for one moment in the other’s seriousness; but as quickly became quite gay. “Here today, gone tomorrow!” she cried airily. “And good riddance to bad rubbish; they’re such babies, really.”
“Be sweet, dear,” said Nurse Thorne with a trace of grim sadness, and she leaned over to kiss the girl on the cheek, being careful not to muss her, but squeezing her shoulder quite hard.
“Bye now!” said Babs, smiling wholeheartedly and raising her hand, as she pushed open the door and was gone.
Nurse Thorne crossed the room to the sofa, and lay down there, one hand covering her half-closed, glittering eyes.
Chapter X
B Y THE TIME Babs reached the Clinic veranda and started down the front steps, it was evident that her excitement had lessened; her appearance no longer expressed the bubbling-over-with-the-sheer-joy-of-living that so marked her presence among others. Walking alongside the wide pebble drive now she seemed, less determinedly, a real part of things, her light coat neatly over her arm, the flat purse clasped firmly against her little rib-case, and one arm swinging free so as not to spoil the line, in case they should be watching from the Clinic. High heels were a bother, but one she accepted graciously, glancing down at the open-toes with interest and, even with a touch of pride, they were so small, as she walked along the drive, taking quick little click-clack steps, and thinking how she was, after all, never quite alone. And justly so perhaps, for as she approached the gate-walk now, her shoulders tremored and straightened slightly in the animal-like awareness of another presence, and, as a car drew near, overtaking her on the drive behind, along the back curve of her legs she seemed to feel each stocking-seam glisten and lie taut and ready as a stringed arrow.
It was Ralph Edwards, in his room-mate’s convertible.
“Hello there,” he said, slowing alongside Babs, then stopping the car a few yards ahead. He pushed the door open toward her. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” He had spoken quite casually, with no trace of his usual grin.
The girl’s next step was in the direction of the car-door, but she stopped, as though it had been involuntary, and asked, almost irritably: “Why, which way are you going?”
“Well, I meant to the bus-stop,” said Ralph, frowning. “. . . I’m going over to the school, but if there’s someplace I can drop you . . .” He glanced at his watch, “. . . I probably have time . . .”
“Oh, you needn’t bother about that,” said Babs, looking into the distance. “It’s such a lovely day!” she smiled radiantly at the things around, and for a moment, seemed on the verge of hugging herself; then, she let her smile complete the circle and come to rest on the young man’s face, as if he too must share in this good fortune of life.
“Well, come on,” he said, leaning toward the open door again clearly impatient. “I can drop you somewhere.”
She laughed, as though the court-idiot had thrown some odd-penny pearls at her feet. “No, really,” she touched at her hair, looking vaguely beyond him again. “It’s such a lovely day . . .”
“Please, Barbara,” said the boy earnestly, “I want to talk to you.”
Babs looked at him searchingly, perhaps as she would at a small boy whose antics were somewhat amusing, but not understandable. On the seat beside Ralph Edwards, like a lowered arm-rest that would be between them, was a large book. Then, without seeming to acknowledge the heart-felt desperation his tone belied, she got onto the
“ I’ll say!” said Babs, knowingly grave at the door, caught up for one moment in the other’s seriousness; but as quickly became quite gay. “Here today, gone tomorrow!” she cried airily. “And good riddance to bad rubbish; they’re such babies, really.”
“Be sweet, dear,” said Nurse Thorne with a trace of grim sadness, and she leaned over to kiss the girl on the cheek, being careful not to muss her, but squeezing her shoulder quite hard.
“Bye now!” said Babs, smiling wholeheartedly and raising her hand, as she pushed open the door and was gone.
Nurse Thorne crossed the room to the sofa, and lay down there, one hand covering her half-closed, glittering eyes.
Chapter X
B Y THE TIME Babs reached the Clinic veranda and started down the front steps, it was evident that her excitement had lessened; her appearance no longer expressed the bubbling-over-with-the-sheer-joy-of-living that so marked her presence among others. Walking alongside the wide pebble drive now she seemed, less determinedly, a real part of things, her light coat neatly over her arm, the flat purse clasped firmly against her little rib-case, and one arm swinging free so as not to spoil the line, in case they should be watching from the Clinic. High heels were a bother, but one she accepted graciously, glancing down at the open-toes with interest and, even with a touch of pride, they were so small, as she walked along the drive, taking quick little click-clack steps, and thinking how she was, after all, never quite alone. And justly so perhaps, for as she approached the gate-walk now, her shoulders tremored and straightened slightly in the animal-like awareness of another presence, and, as a car drew near, overtaking her on the drive behind, along the back curve of her legs she seemed to feel each stocking-seam glisten and lie taut and ready as a stringed arrow.
It was Ralph Edwards, in his room-mate’s convertible.
“Hello there,” he said, slowing alongside Babs, then stopping the car a few yards ahead. He pushed the door open toward her. “Come on, I’ll give you a lift.” He had spoken quite casually, with no trace of his usual grin.
The girl’s next step was in the direction of the car-door, but she stopped, as though it had been involuntary, and asked, almost irritably: “Why, which way are you going?”
“Well, I meant to the bus-stop,” said Ralph, frowning. “. . . I’m going over to the school, but if there’s someplace I can drop you . . .” He glanced at his watch, “. . . I probably have time . . .”
“Oh, you needn’t bother about that,” said Babs, looking into the distance. “It’s such a lovely day!” she smiled radiantly at the things around, and for a moment, seemed on the verge of hugging herself; then, she let her smile complete the circle and come to rest on the young man’s face, as if he too must share in this good fortune of life.
“Well, come on,” he said, leaning toward the open door again clearly impatient. “I can drop you somewhere.”
She laughed, as though the court-idiot had thrown some odd-penny pearls at her feet. “No, really,” she touched at her hair, looking vaguely beyond him again. “It’s such a lovely day . . .”
“Please, Barbara,” said the boy earnestly, “I want to talk to you.”
Babs looked at him searchingly, perhaps as she would at a small boy whose antics were somewhat amusing, but not understandable. On the seat beside Ralph Edwards, like a lowered arm-rest that would be between them, was a large book. Then, without seeming to acknowledge the heart-felt desperation his tone belied, she got onto the
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