und hers.

And it must have been that night when, standing between the inner and
outer doors of her house, Carl put his arms about her, kissed her
hair, timidly kissed her sweet, cold cheek, and cried, "Bless you,
dear." But, for some reason, he does not remember when he did first
kiss her, though he had looked forward to that miracle for weeks. He
does not understand the reason; but there is the fact. Her kisses were
big things to him, yet possibly there were larger psychological
changes which occulted everything else, at first. But it must have
been on that night that he first kissed her. For certainly it was when
he called on her a week later that he kissed her for the second time.

They had been animated but decorous, that evening a week later. He had
tried to play an improvisation called "The Battle of San Juan Hill,"
with a knowledge of the piano limited to the fact that if you struck
alternate keys at the same time, there appeared not to be a discord.

"I must go now," he said, slowly, as though the bald words had a
higher significance. She tried to look at him, and could not. His arms
circled her, with frightened happiness. She tilted back her head, and
there was the ever-new surprise of blue irises under dark brows.
Uplifted wonder her eyes spoke. His head drooped till he kissed her
lips. The two bodies clamored for each other. But she unwound his
arms, crying, "No, no, no!"

He was enfolded by a sensation that they had instantly changed from
friendly strangers to intimate lovers, as she said: "I don't
understand it, Carl. I've never let a man kiss me like that. Oh, I
suppose I've flirted, like most girls, and been kissed sketchily at
silly dances. But this----Oh, Carl, Carl dear, don't ever kiss me
again till--oh, not till I _know_. Why, I'm scarcely acquainted with
you! I do know how dear you are, but it appals me when I think of how
little background you have for me. Dear, I don't want to be sordid and
spoil this moment, but I do know that when you're gone I'll be a
coward and remember that there are families and things, and want to
wait till I know how they like you, at the very least. Good night, and
I----"

"Good night, dear blessed. I know."

CHAPTER XXXVI

There were, as Ruth had remarked, families.

When Carl was formally invited to dine at the Winslows', on a night
late in April, his only anxiety was as to the condition of his
dinner-coat. He arrived in a state of easy briskness, pla