Part 7 (1/2)
”Yessum,” mumbled Carl, peering over at Gertie's throne, where Ben Rusk was being cultured.
”I hope you are having a good time. We always wish our young friends to have an especially good time at Gertrude's parties,” Mrs. Cowles sniffed, and bowed away.
Carl sat beside Adelaide Benner in the decorous and giggling circle that ringed the room, waiting for the ”refreshments.” He was healthily interested in devouring maple ice-cream and chocolate layer-cake. But all the while he was spying on the group gathering about Gertie--Ben Rusk, Howard Griffin, and Joe Jordan. He took the most strategic precautions lest some one think that he wanted to look at Gertie; made such ponderous efforts to prove he was care-free that every one knew something was the matter.
Ben Rusk was taking no part in the gaiety of Howard and Joe. The serious man of letters was not easily led into paths of frivolity.
Carl swore to himself: ”Ben 's the only guy I know that's got any delicate feelings. He appreciates how Gertie feels when she's sick, poor girl. He don't make a goat of himself, like Joe.... Or maybe he's got a stomach-ache.”
”Post-office!” cried Howard Griffin to the room at large. ”Come on!
We're all of us going to be kids again, and play post-office. Who's the first girl wants to be kissed?”
”The idea!” giggled Adelaide Benner.
”Me for Adelaide!” bawled Joe Jordan.
”Oh, Jo-oe, bet I kiss Gertie!” from Irving Lamb.
”The idea!”
”Just as if we were children----”
”He must think we're kids again----”
”Shamey! Winnie wants to be kissed, and Carl won't----”
”I don't, either, so there----”
”I think it's awful.”
”Bet I kiss Gertie----”
Carl was furious at all of them as they strained their shoulders forward from their chairs and laughed. He asked himself, ”Haven't these galoots got any sense?”
To speak so lightly of kissing Gertie! He stared at the smooth rounding of her left cheek below the cheek-bone till it took a separate ident.i.ty, and its white softness filled the room.
Ten minutes afterward, playing ”post-office,” he was facing Gertie in the semi-darkness of the sitting-room, authorized by the game to kiss her; shut in with his divinity.
She took his hand. Her voice was crooning, ”Are you going to kiss me terribly hard?”
He tried to be gracefully mocking: ”Oh yes! Sure! I'm going to eat you alive.”
She was waiting.
He wished that she would not hold his hand. Within he groaned, ”Gee whiz! I feel foolis.h.!.+” He croaked: ”Do you feel better, now? You'll catch more cold in here, won't you? There's kind of a draught. Lemme look at this window.”
Crossing to the obviously tight window, he ran his finger along the edge of the sash with infinite care. He trembled. In a second, _now_, he had to turn and make light of the lips which he would fain have approached with ceremony pompous and lingering.
Gertie flopped into a chair, laughing: ”I believe you're afraid to kiss me! 'Fraid cat! You'll never be a squire of dames, like those actors are! All right for you!”
”I am not afraid!” he piped.... Even his prized semi-ba.s.s voice had deserted him.... He rushed to the back of her chair and leaned over, confused, determined. Hastily he kissed her. The kiss landed on the tip of her cold nose.