to voice her hesitation. Had she expressed exactly what was in her
mind she might have said: "First, won't your mother and sisters snub
me? And secondly, is it quite correct, from a conventional
standpoint, for me to accept your casual invitation?"

"Sure. Mother'll be delighted--come on!" Rodney urged.

"I'd love to!" Martie agreed.

"You know, the beauty about you, Martie, is that you're such a good
pal," Rodney said enthusiastically as he drove on. "I've always
wanted a pal. You and I like the same things; we're both a little
different from the common run, perhaps--I don't want to throw any
flowers at us, but that's true--and it's wonderful to me that living
here in this hole all your life you're so up-to-date--so darned
intelligent!"

This was nectar to Martie's soul. But she had never been indulged so
recklessly in personalities before, and she did not quite know how
to meet them. She wanted to say the right thing, to respond
absolutely to his mood; a smile, half-deprecating, half-charmed,
fluttered on her lips when Rodney talked in this fashion, but even
to herself her words seemed ill-chosen and clumsy. A more
experienced woman, with all of Martie's love and longing surging in
her heart, would have vouchsafed him just that casual touch of hand
on hand, that slight, apparently involuntary swerve of shoulder
against shoulder that would have brought the boy's arms about her,
his lips to hers.

It was her business in life to make him love her; the only business