I to-morrow?”      

       “I don’t like girls in the daytime,” he said shortly, and then, thinking this a bit abrupt, he added: “But I like you.” He cleared his throat. “I like you first and second and third.”      

       Myra’s eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell Marylyn! Here on the couch with this wonderful-looking boy—the little fire—the sense that they were alone in the great building—     

       Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate.     

       “I like you the first twenty-five,” she confessed, her voice trembling,       “and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth.”      

       Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet he had not even noticed it.     

       But Amory, being on the spot, leaned over quickly and kissed Myra’s cheek. He had never kissed a girl before, and he tasted his lips curiously, as if he had munched some new fruit. Then their lips brushed like young wild flowers in the wind.     

       “We’re awful,” rejoiced Myra gently. She slipped her hand into his, her head drooped against his shoulder. Sudden revulsion seized Amory, disgust, loathing for the whole incident. He desired frantically to be away, never to see Myra again, never to kiss any one; he became conscious of his face and hers, of their clinging hands, and he wanted to creep out of his body and hide somewhere safe out of sight, up in the corner of his mind.     

       “Kiss me again.” Her voice came out of a great void.     

       “I don’t want to,” he heard himself saying. There was another pause.     

       “I don’t want to!” he repeated passionately.     

       Myra sprang up, her cheeks pink with bruised vanity, the great bow on the back of her head trembling sympathetically.     

       “I hate you!” she cried. “Don’t you ever dare to speak to me again!”      

       “What?” stammered Amory.     

       “I’ll tell mama you kissed me! I will too! I will too! I’ll tell mama, and she won’t let me play with you!”      

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