“You might try and see—if you weren’t so awfully slow. That’s mostly the trouble with you, Nathan—you’re slow!” “And you won’t be mad——?” “What if I am? A girl always loves the man who does things he wants, whether she gets mad or not.” Bernie had secured this sort of thing undoubtedly from her mother’s Pansy Series. The boy’s embarrassment was so great that Bernice reached her hand out to him, a soft, damp hand, though she looked in the opposite direction. He took the hand, timidly at first, and considered it as Adam considered the Apple. He sat up beside her with a tremendous yawn, as though he had lain too long and would change his position. As for the girl, she was a bit frightened, white-faced. But an atavism in her blood was militant. She was afraid and yet she wasn’t afraid. Any woman might explain it. “Aw, can I really kiss you, Bernie?” “I said so, didn’t I? And if you’re goin’ to do it, for pity’s sake, hurry up!” He leaned over and kissed her on a peach-blown cheek, searing hot and zero cold by turns. And no more chaste kiss was ever given The Sex. But Bernie responded in a way that Nathan never forgot. She turned her face, her nostrils breathed into his own, she kissed him—once!—twice!—three times!—heavy, impulsive, lumberous kisses, squarely on his mouth. The Forge boy wanted to flee or wanted to cry; he couldn’t quite decide which. And because he couldn’t decide he stayed where he was and waited for the rocking hysteria of reaction to pass. “Let’s—let’s—do it again,” the girl suggested, as the boy sat stiffly, vaguely remembering something about the eye of God being upon the sinner even in the wilderness. They went through that ecstasy again and again. And astounding to record, the boy suddenly leaned over with his face on his arm. “Natie Forge! What in the world is the matter?” cried the stupefied girl. “Dunno,” said the lad. “But somehow I feel we oughtn’t.” “Well, I like that! Why oughtn’t we?” “Dunno. And besides—it hurts!” “Hurts? What hurts?” “Didn’t you never have anything happen to you that felt so good it hurt?” “Well, you are a queer one!” “I know. That’s what Pa’s always sayin’! And—and—everybody. I wish I wasn’t!” “Here I let you kiss me as much as you want and you make me feel as if I was doin’ sumpin’ wicked. Nathan Forge—I’m mad! I never want to speak to you again!” “Aw, don’t be mad, Bernie. I didn’t mean nothin’! Honest!” “Mother always said you were a yokel. I don’t know what it means but you are one, all right.” Under her exasperation the Dresden Doll was furious. She had lowered the lattice of her modesty and knew it perfectly. A crass boy was vaguely sounding a warning.