and the dietetic value of beans--the large, white beans,
not the small, brown ones--she had grown both varieties in her garden at
home (Panama, Pennsylvania, when Mr. Golden, Captain Golden he was
usually called, was alive)--and had Mr. Babson ever had a garden, or
seen Panama? And was Una _really_ attending to her duties?

All the while Mrs. Golden's canary trilled approval of the conversation.

Una listened, numbed, while Walter kept doing absurd things with his
face--pinched his lips and tapped his teeth and rubbed his jaw as though
he needed a shave. He took off his eye-glasses to wipe them and tied
his thin legs in a knot, and all the while said, "Yes, there's
certainly a great deal to that."

At a quarter to ten Mrs. Golden rose, indulged in a little kitten yawn
behind her silvery hand, and said: "Well, I think I must be off to
bed.... I find these May days so languid. Don't you, Mr. Babson? Spring
fever. I just can't seem to get enough sleep.... Now you mustn't stay up
_too_ late, Una dear."

The bedroom door had not closed before Walter had darted from his chair,
picked Una up, his hands pressing tight about her knees and shoulders,
kissed her, and set her down beside him on the couch.

"Wasn't I good, huh? Wasn't I good, huh? Wasn't I? Now who says Wally
Babson ain't a good parlor-pup, huh? Oh, you old darling, you were twice
as agonized as me!"

And that was all he said--in words. Between them was a secret, a greater
feeling of unfettered intimacy, because together they had been polite to
mother--tragic, pitiful mother, who had been enjoying herself so much
without knowing that she was in the way. That intimacy needed no words
to express it; hands and cheeks and lips spoke more truly. They were
children of emotion, young and crude and ignorant, groping for life and
love, all the world new to them, despite their sorrows and waiting. They
were clerklings, not lords of love and life, but all the more easily did
they yield to longing for happiness. Between them was the battle of
desire and timidity--and not all the desire was his, not hers all the
timidity. She fancied sometimes that he was as much afraid as was she of
debasing their shy seeking into unveiled passion. Yet his was the
initiative; always she panted and wondered what he would do next, feared
and wondered and rebuked--and desired.

He abruptly drew her head to his shoulder, smoothed her hair. She felt
his fingers again communicate to her every