“Oh, George, I’ve got two long papers due—I don’t think I can …” She stood there, as always resisting him, so he felt. Always first having to say no, so intact did she wish to seem.

“I never do anything worth doing at two—do you?” he challenged her, teased her, dismayed as he always was by the gap between them, the having to make a bridge. For when he thought of Pen he thought of her as part of himself, yet she had never said she loved him, would not say it, for some complex reason of her own, some stubborn refusal to be bound, to be committed. He slipped an arm through hers and they walked along together, well in step. At least she had not pulled away. They were together.

“But why just today? There’s time—there’s all year,” she said sensibly, brushing back that straight lock of hair which always fell over her forehead, which must always and constantly be pushed back, smiling at him now suddenly as if she were glad to see him after all. When she smiled her face broke open in the most amazing way; it was otherwise very tense and quiet, fine cheekbones, narrow dark eyes, and then a wide surprising mouth which could break into an enormous smile.

“I don’t know—I just have a feeling …” he said vaguely, for really there was no imperative reason.

“What sort of feeling?” she inquired. Pen had become very logical in the last year due to a course in philosophy she was taking.

“Oh, I don’t know.” George felt uncomfortable now, pinned down. “I just thought this was a lovely day—and, really—I wanted to see you. We could have tea afterwards.” He could not keep the pleading tone out of his voice and felt humiliated. “Never mind,” he said crossly. “If you don’t want to.”

Lately everything had got too tense between them, that was the trouble. It was ever since he had kissed her, the first night after the holiday. She had been upset. She had said, “I don’t want to feel so much, George—please—” such a queer thing to say. But like Pen. She was different from everyone else. That was why he loved her so much.

They were retracing his steps which had been airy and joyful as if he had wings on his feet. But now he was back in the complex tense anxiety of his relationship to her, he stubbed his toe on a loose brick rather painfully. It was annoying the way they had to keep pushing past masses of girls; she had slipped her arm out from his long ago.

“Oh all right, I’ll come, George. Don’t take everything so hard.”