eart he wished that she
wouldn't stay.

"I know, but I've got to go. Let's go somewhere out in the woods where
we can talk without being disturbed."

Still protesting, he led her out of the house, across the campus, past
the lake, and into the woods. Finally they sat down on a smooth rock.

"I'm awfully sorry to bust up your party, Hugh," Cynthia began slowly,
"but I've been doing some thinking, and I've just got to beat it." She
paused a moment and then looked him square in the eyes. "Do you love
me?"

For an instant Hugh's eyes dropped, and then he looked up and lied like
a gentleman. "Yes," he said simply; "I love you, Cynthia."

She smiled almost wearily and shook her head. "You _are_ a good egg,
Hugh. It was white of you to say that, but I know that you don't love
me. You did yesterday, but you don't now. Do you realize that you
haven't asked to kiss me to-day?"

Hugh flushed and stammered: "I--I've got an awful hang-over, Cynthia. I
feel rotten."

"Yes, I know, but that isn't why you didn't want to kiss me. I know all
about it. Listen, Hugh." She faced him bravely. "I've been running with
a fast crowd for three years, and I've learned a lot about fellows; and
most of 'em that I've known weren't your kind. How old are you?"

"Twenty-one in a couple of months."

"I'm twenty and lots wiser about some things than you are. I've been
crazy about you--I guess I am kinda yet--and I know that you thought you
were in love with me. I wanted you to have hold of me all the time.
That's all that mattered. It was--was your body, Hugh. You're sweet and
fine, and I respect you, but I'm not the kid for you to run around with.
I'm too fast. I woke up early this morning, and I've done a lot of
thinking since. You know what we came near doing last night? Well,
that's all we want each other for. We're not in love."

A phrase from the bull sessions rushed into Hugh's mind. "You mean--sex
attraction?" he asked in some embarrassment. He felt weak and tired. He
seemed to be listening to Cynthia in a dream. Nothing was real--and
everything was a little sad.

"Yes, that's it--and, oh, Hugh, somehow I don't want that with you.
We're not the same kind at all. I used to think that when I got your
letters. Sometimes I hardly understood them, but I'd close my eyes and
see you so strong and blond and clean, and I'd imagine you were holding
me tight--and--and then I was happy. I guess I did kinda love you, but
we've spoiled it." She w