on the big clock above the librarian's
desk moved toward half-past eight, apprehensions began to rise again.
What if Arthur should fail to come? Could she ever live through that
long, terrible trip home, all alone?

Then, just as fear was beginning to turn to panic, Arthur sauntered in,
nonchalantly took a chair at another table, picked up a magazine and
professed to glance through it. And then, while Missy palpitated, he
looked over at her, smiled, and made an interrogative movement with his
eyebrows. More palpitant by the second, she replaced her magazines and
got into her wraps. As she moved toward the door, whither Arthur
was also sauntering, she felt that every eye in the Library must be
observing. Hard to tell whether she was more proud or embarrassed at the
public empressement of her "date."

Arthur, quite at ease, took her arm to help her down the slippery steps.

Arthur wore his air of assurance gracefully because he was so used to
it. Admiration from the fair sex was no new thing to him. And Missy knew
this. Perhaps that was one reason she'd been so modestly pleased that he
had wished to bestow his gallantries upon her. She realized that Raymond
Bonner was much handsomer and richer; and that Kitty Allen's cousin
Jim from Macon City, in his uniform of a military cadet, was much more
distinguished-looking; and that Don Jones was much more humbly
adoring. Arthur had red hair, and lived in a boarding-house and drove a
delivery-wagon, and wasn't the least bit humble; but he had an audacious
grin and upcurling lashes and "a way with him." So Missy accepted his
favour with a certain proud gratitude.

She felt herself the heroine of a thrilling situation though their
conversation, as Arthur guided her along the icy sidewalks, was of very
ordinary things: the weather--Missy's sore throat (sweet solicitude
from Arthur)--and gossip of the "crowd"--the weather's probabilities
to-morrow--more gossip--the weather again.

The weather was, in fact, in assertive evidence. The wind whipped
chillingly about Missy's shortskirted legs, for they were strolling
slowly--the correct way to walk when one has a "date." Missy's teeth
were chattering and her legs seemed wooden, but she'd have died rather
than suggest running a block to warm up. Anyway, despite physical
discomforts, there was a certain deliciousness in the situation, even
though she found it difficult to turn the talk into the spiritual
trend she had proposed. Finall