“Don't be silly. I love having you. I sat up late last night, reading. I wonder what you think of this: one of the characters in the book I was reading says that every man who--who cares for a woman leaves his mark on her! I suppose she tries to become what he thinks she is, for the time anyhow, and is never just her old self again.” She said “cares for” instead of “loves.” It is one of the traditions of youth to avoid the direct issue in life's greatest game. Perhaps “love” is left to the fervent vocabulary of the lover. Certainly, as if treading on dangerous ground, Sidney avoided it. “Every man! How many men are supposed to care for a woman, anyhow?” “Well, there's the boy who--likes her when they're both young.” A bit of innocent mischief this, but Joe straightened. “Then they both outgrow that foolishness. After that there are usually two rivals, and she marries one of them--that's three. And--” “Why do they always outgrow that foolishness?” His voice was unsteady. “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. “Please--I don't like that sort of thing.” “Why not?” His voice was husky. “It isn't right. Besides, the neighbors are always looking out the windows.” The drop from her high standard of right and wrong to the neighbors' curiosity appealed suddenly to her sense of humor. She threw back her head and laughed. He joined her, after an uncomfortable moment. But he was very much in earnest. He sat, bent forward, turning his new straw hat in his hands. “I guess you know how I feel. Some of the fellows have crushes on girls and get over them. I'm not like that. Since the first day I saw you I've never looked at another girl. Books can say what they like: there are people like that, and I'm one of them.”