Part 17 (1/2)
”Y--yes--I suppose so.... But I don't want to.”
”Then why do you?”
”Well, if I'm not going the _other_ way, and if I'm not going to remain here--” He looked at her, half laughing. She laughed, too, not exactly knowing why.
”Don't you really mind my walking a little way with you?” he asked.
”No, I don't. Why should I? Is there any reason? Am I not old enough to know why we should not walk together? Is it because the sun is going down? Is there what people call 'danger'?”
He was so plainly taken aback that her fair young face became seriously curious.
”_Is_ there any reason why you should not walk with me?” she persisted.
The clear, direct gaze challenged him. He hesitated.
”Yes, there is,” he said.
”A--a reason why you should not walk with me?”
”Yes.”
”What is it?”
And, as he did not find words to answer, she studied him for a moment, glanced up and down the woodland walk, then impulsively seated herself and motioned him to a place beside her on the bench.
”Now,” she said, ”I'm in a position to find out just what this danger is that they all warn me about. _You_ know, don't you?”
”Know what?” he answered.
”About the danger that I seem to run every time I manage to enjoy myself.... And you _do_ know; I see it by the way you look at me--and your expression is just like their expression when they tell me not to do things I find most natural.”
”But--I--you----”
”You _must_ tell me! I shall be thoroughly vexed with you if you don't.”
Then he began to laugh, and she let him, leaning back to watch him with uncertain and speculative blue eyes. After a moment he said:
”You are absolutely unlike any girl I ever heard of. I am trying to get used to it--to adjust things. Will you help me?”
”How?” she asked innocently.
”Well, by telling me”--he looked at her a moment--”your age. You look about nineteen.”
”I am sixteen and a half. I and all my sisters have developed our bodies so perfectly because, until we came to New York last autumn, we had lived all our lives out-of-doors.” She looked at him with a friendly smile. ”Would you really like to know about us?”
”Intensely.”
”Well, there are eight of us: Chlorippe, thirteen; Philodice, fourteen; Dione, fifteen; Aphrodite, sixteen--I am Aphrodite; Cybele, seventeen, married; Lissa, eighteen, married; Iole, nineteen, married, and Vanessa, twenty, married.” She raised one small, gloved finger to emphasize the narrative. ”All our lives we were brought up to be perfectly natural, to live, act, eat, sleep, play like primitive people. Our father dressed us like youths--boys, you know. Why,” she said earnestly, ”until we came to New York we had no idea that girls wore such lovely, fluffy underwear--but I believe I am not to mention such things; at least they have told me not to--but my straight front is still a novelty to me, and so are my stockings, so you won't mind if I've said something I shouldn't, will you?”
”No,” he said; his face was expressionless.