Their songs and
laughter floated back along the winding country road. Selma, comfortable
in her wraps and well tucked about with a rug, leaned back contentedly
in the chaise, after the goodbyes had been said, to enjoy the glamour of
the full moon. They were seven miles from home and she was in no hurry
to get there. Neither festivities nor the undisguised devotion of a city
young man were common in her life. Consideration she had been used to
from a child, and she knew herself to be tacitly acknowledged the
smartest girl in Westfield, but perhaps for that very reason she had
held aloof from manhood until now. At least no youth in her neighborhood
had ever impressed her as her equal. Neither did Babcock so impress her;
but he was different from the rest. He was not shy and unexpressive; he
was buoyant and self-reliant, and yet he seemed to appreciate her
quality none the less.
They had met about a dozen times, and on the last six of these occasions
he had come from Benham, ten miles to her uncle's farm, obviously to
visit her. The last two times her Aunt Farley had made him spend the
night, and it had been arranged that he would drive her in the Farley
chaise to Clara Morse's wedding. A seven-mile drive is apt to promote or
kill the germs of intimacy, and on the way over she had been conscious
of enjoying herself.
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