Billy. She stole glances at the smoothness of his face, and the
essential boyishness of him, so much desired, shocked her. Of
course he would marry some girl years younger than himself, than
herself. How old was he? Could it be that he was too young for
her? As he seemed to grow inaccessible, she was drawn toward him
more compellingly. He was so strong, so gentle. She lived over
the events of the day. There was no flaw there. He had considered
her and Mary, always. And he had torn the program up and danced
only with her. Surely he had liked her, or he would not have done
it.

She slightly moved her hand in his and felt the harsh contact of
his teamster callouses. The sensation was exquisite. He, too,
moved his hand, to accommodate the shift of hers, and she waited
fearfully. She did not want him to prove like other men, and she
could have hated him had he dared to take advantage of that
slight movement of her fingers and put his arm around her. He did
not, and she flamed toward him. There was fineness in him. He was
neither rattle-brained, like Bert, nor coarse like other men she
had encountered. For she had had experiences, not nice, and she
had been made to suffer by the lack of what was termed chivalry,
though she, in turn, lacked that word to describe what she
divined and desired.

And he was a prizefighter. The thought of it almost made her
gasp. Yet he answered not at all to her conception of a
prizefighter. But, then, he wasn't a prizefighter. He had said he
was not. She resolved to ask him about it some time if . . . if
he took her out again. Yet there was little doubt of that, for
when a man danced with one girl a whole day he did not drop her