All of
life, the sages tell us, is largely a matter of proportion. Como,
Wisconsin, was breathless excitement to Milly Ridge at eighteen, as she
testified to her hostess in a thousand joyous little ways.
And there was the inevitable man,--a cousin of the Claxton tribe, who
was a young lawyer in Baltimore. He spent a week at the lake, almost
every minute with Milly.
"You've simply fascinated him, my dear," Eleanor Kemp reported,
delightedly. "And they're very good people, I assure you--he's a Harvard
man."
It was the first time Milly had met on intimate terms a graduate of a
large university. In those days "Harvard" and "Yale" were titles of
aristocratic magic, as good as Rome or Oxford.
"He thinks you so unspoiled," her friend added. "I've asked him to stay
another week."
So the two boated and walked and sat out beside the lake until the stars
grew dim--and nothing ever came of it! Milly had her little extravagant
imaginings about this well-bred young man with his distinguished manner;
she did her best to please--and nothing came of it. Why? she asked
herself afterward. He had held her hand and talked about "the woman who
gives purpose to a man's life" and all that. (Alas, that plebeian paw of
Milly's!)
Then he had left and sent her a five-pound box of candy from the
metropolis, with a correct little note, assuring her that he could never
forget those days he had spent with her by the lake of Como.
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