She was conscious always of Grandma Ridge's keen ears pricked
to attention behind the smooth curls of gray hair. It was astonishing
how much the old lady could overhear and misinterpret!...
Almost all these young men, clerks and drummers and ranchers, were
hopelessly, stupidly dull, and Milly knew it. Their idea of
entertainment was the theatre or lopping about the long steps, listening
to her chatter. When they took her "buggy-riding," they might try
clumsily to put their arms around her. She would pretend not to notice
and lean forward slightly to avoid the embrace....
Her first really sentimental encounter came at the end of a long day's
picnicking on the hot sands of the lake beach. Harold--ultimately she
forgot his last name--had taken her up the shore after supper. They had
scrambled to the top of the clayey bluff and sat there in a thicket,
looking out over the dimpled water, hot, uncomfortable, self-conscious.
His hand had strayed to hers, and she had let him hold it, caress the
stubby fingers in his thin ones, aware that hers was quite a homely
hand, her poorest "point." She knew somehow that he wanted to kiss her,
and she wondered what she should do if he tried,--whether she should be
offended or let him "just once." He was a handsome, bashful boy, and she
felt fond of him.
But when he had got his courage to the point, she drew off quickly, and
to distract his attention exclaimed,--"See! What's that?" They looked
across the broad surface of the lake and saw a tiny rim of pure gold
swell upwards from the waves.
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