"Oh, I don't know. One's ideas change. Anyhow, I'm only telling you what
the book said."

"It's a silly book."

"I don't believe it's true," she confessed. "When I got started I just
read on. I was curious."

More eager than curious, had she only known. She was fairly vibrant with
the zest of living. Sitting on the steps of the little brick house, her
busy mind was carrying her on to where, beyond the Street, with its dingy
lamps and blossoming ailanthus, lay the world that was some day to lie to
her hand. Not ambition called her, but life.

The boy was different. Where her future lay visualized before her, heroic
deeds, great ambitions, wide charity, he planned years with her, selfish,
contented years. As different as smug, satisfied summer from visionary,
palpitating spring, he was for her--but she was for all the world.

By shifting his position his lips came close to her bare young arm. It
tempted him.

"Don't read that nonsense," he said, his eyes on the arm. "And--I'll never
outgrow my foolishness about you, Sidney."

Then, because he could not help it, he bent over and kissed her arm.

She was just eighteen, and Joe's devotion was very pleasant. She thrilled
to the touch of his lips on her flesh; but she drew her arm away.