erything was
all off. That's why she left early. She said that we didn't love each
other, that all we felt was sex attraction. I don't know whether she's
right or not, but I miss her like the devil. I--I feel empty, sort of
hollow inside, as if everything had suddenly been poured out of me--and
there's nothing to take its place. I was full of Cynthia, you see, and
now there's no Cynthia. There's nothing left but--oh, God, Norry, I'm
ashamed of myself. I feel--dirty." The last word was hardly audible.

Norry touched his arm. "I know, Hugh, and I'm awfully sorry. I think,
though, that Cynthia was right. I know her better than you do. She's an
awfully good kid but not your kind at all; I think I feel as badly
almost as you do about it." He paused a moment and then said simply, "I
was so proud of you, Hugh."

"Don't!" Hugh exclaimed. "I want to kill myself when you say things like
that."

"You don't understand. I know that you don't understand. I've been doing
a lot of thinking since Prom, too. I've thought over a lot of things
that you've said to me--about me, I mean. Why, Hugh, you think I'm not
human. I don't believe you think I have passions like the rest of you.
Well, I do, and sometimes it's--it's awful. I'm telling you that so
you'll understand that I know how you feel. But love's beautiful to me,
Hugh, the most wonderful thing in the world. I was in love with a girl
once--and I know. She didn't give a hang for me; she thought I was a
baby. I suffered awfully; but I know that my love was beautiful, as
beautiful as--" He looked around for a simile--"as to-night. I think
it's because of that that I hate mugging and petting and that sort of
thing. I don't want beauty debased. I want to fight when orchestras jazz
famous arias. Well, petting is jazzing love; and I hate it. Do you see
what I mean?"

Hugh looked at him wonderingly. He didn't know this Norry at all. "Yes,"
he said slowly; "yes, I see what you mean; I think I do, anyway. But
what has it to do with me?"

"Well, I know most of the fellows pet and all that sort of thing, and
they don't think anything about it. But you're different; you love
beautiful things as much as I do. You told me yourself that Jimmie
Henley said last year that you were gifted. You can write and sing and
run, but I've just realized that you aren't proud of those things at
all; you just take them for granted. And you're ashamed that you write
poetry. Some of your poems are good, but yo