August passed, and the first hot days of September--their discomfort
forgotten in the excitement of Eileen’s entrance into college. There
was yet another week before Hal must depart for his examinations,
and on Thursday evening he failed to report, either in person or by
telephone. The omission elicited no comment. But when the week had
slipped by, and it became known that the youth had departed for New
York without calling to say good-bye, Lavinia made bold to question her
daughter.
“If he didn’t want to come, I’m sure nobody was going to ask him,” the
girl flung back, her eyes darkening.
“Never mind, dear. These little quarrels only prove that it is true
love. You and Hal will make it all up in your letters.”
“There aren’t going to be any letters.”
After her mother had gone into the house, Theodora drew near the
hammock where Eileen had been studying Christian Ethics, squinting her
burning eyes as the daylight waned, striving to focus her mind on the
empty paragraphs.
“What did you and Hal quarrel about? Go on--tell me,” the child teased.
“Get out and let me alone. Don’t you know any better than to interrupt
a fellow who has to bone freshman ethics? I almost had a philosophic
thought by the tail, when you butted in on my painful ratiocinations.”
“I don’t want to pry, Eileen. Honest, I don’t. But you’ve cried every
night since Wednesday. And when you talked in your sleep, last night--”
“I did!” The girl sat up, sending the textbook flying across the lawn.
“What did I say? Tell me every word.”
“You’d been kind of mumbling, and all at once you said right out loud:
‘Hal Marksley, to think I could have loved a dirty calf like you.’”
“I didn’t say ‘calf’--I said--” She clapped her hand to her mouth and
her cheeks went white. “I’m going to have a separate room. That’s all
there is about it. If I can’t keep from babbling in my sleep....”