Poor Mr. Wrenn; he had not gone to enough parties in Parthenon,
and he hadn't gone to any in New York. At nearly forty he was
just learning the drab sulkiness and churlishness and black
jealousy of the lover.... To her: "Why didn't you go out with
that guy with the black mustache?" He still stared straight ahead.
She was big-eyed, a tear showing. "Why, Billy--" was all she
answered.
He clenched his hands to keep from bursting out with all the
pitiful tears which were surging in his eyes. But he said nothing.
"Billy, what--"
He turned shyly around to her; his hand touched hers softly.
"Oh, I'm a beast," he said, rapidly, low, his undertone
trembling to her ears through the laughter of a group next to
them. "I didn't mean that, but I was--I felt like such a
mutt--not being able to dance. Oh, Nelly, I'm awfully sorry.
You know I didn't mean--_Come on!_ Let's go get something to eat!"
As they consumed ice-cream, fudge, doughnuts, and chicken
sandwiches at the refreshment counter they were very intimate,
resenting the presence of others.
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