That unwonted arm-in-arm business confused Missy a good deal. She had an idea it was the proper thing when one is being escorted home, and had put her arm in his as a matter of course, but before they had reached the gate she was acutely conscious of the touch of her arm on his. To make matters worse, a curious wave of embarrassment was creeping over her; she couldn't think of anything to say, and they had walked nearly a block down moon-flooded Silver Street, with no sound but Jim's creaking shoes, before she got out: “How do you like Cherry vale, Mr. Henley?” “Looks good to me,” he responded. Then silence again, save for Jim's shoes. Missy racked her brains. What do you say to boys who don't know the same people and affairs you do? Back there at the party things had gone easily, but they were playing cards or dancing or eating; there had been no need for tete-a-tete conversation. How do you talk to people you don't know? She liked Jim, but the need to make talk was spoiling everything. She moved along beside his creaking shoes as in a nightmare, and, as she felt every atom of her freezing to stupidity, she desperately forced her voice: “What a beautiful night it is!” “Yes, it's great.” Missy sent him a sidelong glance. He didn't look exactly happy either. Did he feel awkward too? Creak! creak! creak! said the shoes. “Listen to those shoes--never heard 'em squeak like that before,” he muttered apologetically. Missy, striving for a proper answer and finding none, kept on moving through that feeling of nightmare. What was the matter with her tongue, her brain? Was it because she didn't know Jim well enough to talk to him? Surely not, for she had met strange boys before and not felt like this. Was it because it was night? Did you always feel like this when you were all dressed up and going home from an evening party? Creak! creak! said the shoes. Another block lay behind them. Missy, fighting that sensation of stupidity, in anguished resolution spoke again: “Just look at the moon--how big it is!” Jim followed her upward glance. “Yes, it's great,” he agreed. Creak! creak! said the shoes. A heavy, regularly punctuated pause. “Don't you love moonlight nights?” persisted Missy. “Yes--when my shoes don't squeak.” He tried to laugh. Missy tried to laugh too. Creak! creak! said the shoes. Another block lay behind them. “Moonlight always makes me feel--”