—but Basil had no girl, though he was as yet unaware of the fact.
After the fourth dance, Basil led Imogene down to the end of the pier, where they found seats in a motorboat.
“Now what?” she said.
He did not know. If he had really cared for her he would have known. When her hand rested on his knee for a moment he did not notice it. Instead, he talked. He told her how he had pitched on the second baseball team at school and had once beaten the first in a five-inning game. He told her that the thing was that some boys were popular with boys and some boys were popular with girls—he, for instance, was popular with girls. In short, he unloaded himself.
At length, feeling that he had perhaps dwelt disproportionately on himself, he told her suddenly that she was his favorite girl.
Imogene sat there, sighing a little in the moonlight. In another boat, lost in the darkness beyond the pier, sat a party of four. Joe Gorman was singing:
“My little love—
—in honey man,
He sure has won my—”
“I thought you might want to know,” said Basil to Imogene. “I thought maybe you thought I liked somebody else. The truth game didn’t get around to me the other night.”
“What?” asked Imogene vaguely. She had forgotten the other night, all nights except this, and she was thinking of the magic in Joe Gorman’s voice. She had the next dance with him; he was going to teach her the words of a new song. Basil was sort of peculiar, telling her all this stuff. He was good-looking and attractive and all that, but—she wanted the dance to be over. She wasn’t having any fun.
The music began inside—“Everybody’s Doing It,” played with many little nervous jerks on the violins.
“Oh, listen!” she cried, sitting up and snapping her fingers. “Do you know how to rag?”
“Listen, Imogene”—He half realized that something had slipped away—“let’s sit out this dance—you can tell Joe you forgot.”
She rose quickly. “Oh, no, I can’t!”
Unwillingly Basil followed her inside. It had not gone well—he had talked too much again. He waited moodily for the eleventh dance so that he could behave differently. He believed now that he was in love with Imogene. His self-deception created a tightness in his throat, a counterfeit of longing and desire.
Before the eleventh dance he was aware that some party was being organized from which he was purposely excluded. There were whisperings and arguings among some of the boys, and unnatural silences when he came near. He heard Joe Gorman say to Riply Buckner, “We’ll just be gone three days. If Gladys can’t go, why don’t you ask Connie? The chaperons’ll—” he changed his sentence as he saw Basil—“and we’ll all go to Smith’s for ice-cream soda.”
Later, Basil took Riply Buckner aside but failed to elicit any information: Riply had not forgotten Basil’s attempt to rob him of Imogene tonight.
“It wasn’t about anything,” he insisted. “We’re going to Smith’s, honest… How’d you cut your lip?”
“Cut it shaving.”
When his dance with Imogene came she was even vaguer than before, exchanging mysterious communications with various girls as they moved around the room, locked in the convulsive grip of the Grizzly Bear. He led her out to the boat again, but it was occupied, and they walked up and down the pier while he tried to talk to her and she hummed:
“My little lov-in honey man—”
“Imogene, listen. What I wanted to ask you when we were on the boat before was about the night we played Truth. Did you really mean what you said?”
“Oh, what do you want to talk about that silly game for?”
It had reached her ears, not once but several times, that Basil thought he was wonderful—news that was flying about with as much volatility as the rumor of his graces two weeks before. Imogene liked to agree with everyone—and she had agreed with several impassioned boys that Basil was terrible. And it was difficult not to dislike him for her own disloyalty.
But Basil thought that only ill luck ended the intermission before he could accomplish his purpose; though what he had wanted he had not known.
Finally, during the intermission, Margaret Torrence, whom he had neglected, told him the truth.
“Are you going on the touring party up to the St. Croix River?” she asked. She knew he was not.
“What party?”
“Joe Gorman got it up. I’m going with Elwood Leaming.”
“No, I’m not going,” he said gruffly. “I couldn’t go.”
“Oh!”
“I don’t like Joe Gorman.”
“I guess he doesn’t like you much either.”
“Why? What did he say?”
“Oh, nothing.”
“But what? Tell me what he said.”
After a minute she told him, as if reluctantly: “Well, he and Hubert Blair said you thought—you thought you were wonderful.” Her heart misgave her.
But she remembered he had asked her for only one dance. “Joe said you told him that all the girls thought you were wonderful.”
“I never said anything like that,” said Basil indignantly, “never!”
He understood—Joe Gorman had done it all, taken advantage of Basil’s talking too much—an affliction which his real friends had always allowed for—in order to ruin him. The world was suddenly compact of villainy. He decided to go home.
In the coat room he was accosted by Bill Kampf: “Hello, Basil, how did you hurt your lip?”
“Cut it shaving.”
“Say, are you going to this party they’re getting up next week?”
“No.”
“Well, look, I’ve got a cousin from Chicago coming to stay with us and mother said I could have a boy out for the week-end. Her name is Minnie Bibble.”
“Minnie Bibble?” repeated Basil, vaguely revolted.
“I thought maybe you were going to that party, too, but Riply Buckner said to ask you and I thought—”
“I’ve got to stay home,” said Basil quickly.
“Oh, come on, Basil,” he pursued. “It’s only for two days, and she’s a nice girl. You’d like her.”
“I don’t know,” Basil considered. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Bill. I’ve got to get the street car home. I’ll come out for the week-end if you’ll take me over to Wildwood now in your car.”
“Sure I will.”
Basil walked out on the veranda and approached Connie Davies.
“Good-by,” he said. Try as he might, his voice was stiff and proud. “I had an awfully good time.”
“I’m sorry you’re leaving so early, Basil.” But she said to herself: “He’s too stuck up to have a good time. He thinks he’s wonderful.”
From the veranda he could hear Imogene’s laughter down at the end of the pier. Silently he went down the steps and along the walk to meet Bill Kampf, giving strollers a wide berth as though he felt the sight of him would diminish their pleasure.
It had been an awful night.
Ten minutes later Bill dropped him beside the waiting trolley. A few last picnickers sauntered aboard and the car bobbed and clanged through the night toward St. Paul.
Presently two young girls sitting opposite Basil began looking over at him and nudging each other, but he took no notice—he was thinking how sorry they would all be—Imogene and Margaret, Joe and Hubert and Riply.
“Look at him now!” they would say to themselves sorrowfully. “President of the United States at twenty-five! Oh, if we only hadn’t been so bad to him that night!”
He thought he was wonderful!
IV
Ermine Gilberte Labouisse Bibble was in exile. Her parents had brought her from New Orleans to Southampton in May, hoping that the active outdoor life proper to a girl of fifteen would take her thoughts from love. But North or South, a storm of sappling arrows flew about her. She was “engaged” before the first of June.
Let it not be gathered from the foregoing that the somewhat hard outlines of Miss Bibble at twenty had already begun to appear. She was of a radiant freshness; her head had reminded otherwise not illiterate young men of damp blue violets, pierced with blue windows that looked into a bright soul, with today’s new roses showing through.
She was in exile. She was going to Glacier National Park to forget. It was written that in passage she would come to Basil as a sort of initiation, turning his eyes out from himself and giving him a first dazzling glimpse into the world of love.
She saw him first as a quiet handsome boy with an air of consideration in his face, which was the mark of his recent re-discovery that others had wills as strong as his, and more power. It appeared to Minnie—as a few months back it had appeared to Margaret Torrence, like a charming sadness. At dinner he was polite to Mrs. Kampf in a courteous way that he had from his father, and he listened to Mr. Bibble’s discussion of the word “Creole” with such evident interest and appreciation that Mr. Bibble thought, “Now here’s a young boy with something to him.”
After dinner, Minnie, Basil and Bill rode into Black Bear village to the movies, and the slow diffusion of Minnie’s charm and personality presently became the charm and personality of the affair itself.
It was thus that all Minnie’s affairs for many years had a family likeness. She looked at Basil, a childish open look; then opened her eyes wider as if she had some sort of comic misgivings, and smiled—she smiled—
For all the candor of this smile, the effect—because of the special contours of Minnie’s face and independent of her mood—was sparkling invitation. Whenever it appeared Basil seemed to be suddenly inflated and borne upward, a little farther each time, only to be set down when the smile had reached a point where it must become a grin, and chose instead to melt away. It was like a drug. In
