"Tell him to go to the Minnehaha straight," he whispered. "I wanta talk
to you--I _got_ to talk to you."

Myra made out the party ahead, had an instant vision of her mother, and
then--alas for convention--glanced into the eyes beside. "Turn down this
side street, Richard, and drive straight to the Minnehaha Club!" she
cried through the speaking tube. Amory sank back against the cushions
with a sigh of relief.

"I can kiss her," he thought. "I'll bet I can. I'll _bet_ I can!"

Overhead the sky was half crystalline, half misty, and the night around
was chill and vibrant with rich tension. From the Country Club steps the
roads stretched away, dark creases on the white blanket; huge heaps of
snow lining the sides like the tracks of giant moles. They lingered for
a moment on the steps, and watched the white holiday moon.

"Pale moons like that one"--Amory made a vague gesture--"make people
mysterieuse. You look like a young witch with her cap off and her hair
sorta mussed"--her hands clutched at her hair--"Oh, leave it, it looks
_good_."

They drifted up the stairs and Myra led the way into the little den of
his dreams, where a cosy fire was burning before a big sink-down couch.
A few years later this was to be a great stage for Amory, a cradle for
many an emotional crisis. Now they talked for a moment about bobbing
parties.

"There's always a bunch of shy fellas," he commented, "sitting at the
tail of the bob, sorta lurkin' an' whisperin' an' pushin' each other
off. Then there's always some crazy cross-eyed girl"--he gave a
terrifying imitation--"she's always talkin' _hard_, sorta, to the
chaperon."

"You're such a funny boy," puzzled Myra.

"How d'y' mean?" Amory gave immediate attention, on his own ground at
last.

"Oh--always talking about crazy things. Why don't you come ski-ing with
Marylyn and I to-morrow?"

"I don't like girls in the daytime," he said shortly, and then, thinking
this a bit abrupt, he added: "But I like you." He cleared his throat. "I
like you first and second and third."

Myra's eyes became dreamy. What a story this would make to tell
Marylyn! Here on the couch with this _wonderful_-looking boy--the little
fire--the sense that they were alone in the great building--

Myra capitulated. The atmosphere was too appropriate.

"I like you the first twenty-five," she confessed, her voice trembling,
"and Froggy Parker twenty-sixth."

Froggy had fallen twenty-five places in one hour. As yet