3. FEEL MY MUSCLE

TYPE:

The man of action, of firm convictions and a limited sympathy for anyone who does not agree with him. Timid or sickly persons are advised to avoid this method.

SUBJECT:

An old-fashioned girl, apt to get a thrill when forcibly reminded of her comparative weakness.

APPARATUS:

1 Bathing Beach1 Life-saving Uniform2 Hot Dogs

1 Bathing Beach

1 Life-saving Uniform

2 Hot Dogs

REMARKS:

We all have some primitive instincts, even now. A crude exhibition of brute strength is fascinating to most of us, deny it as we will. The psychological basis for the reaction of the subject is probably a feeling that she will not have to bear the responsibility for whatever may happen.

FEEL MY MUSCLE

The holiday crowd is thinning out. Dusk shrouds the less decorative elements of the beach—the ragged holes left by children and the empty, soiled paper lunch boxes. Those revelers who are left see only the long curving line of the shore and a mysterious intermittent foaming as the lazy waves crash slowly against the sand.

Eloise lounges on the beach, watching the slow ebb of the Sunday gaiety. She thinks vaguely of going in for one more dip before she gets dressed; thinks of the shock of cold water on her already-dry bathing suit; thinks of the damp, dank-smelling dressing-room, and decides to postpone the whole thing for a few minutes. There is no hurry and she isn’t cold. She runs her hand through her fuzzy hair and yawns. She is a slim girl with a slightly bored expression, and she is younger than she looks.

It has been a pleasant Sunday, withal rather dull. She hasn’t come to the beach alone; she and the other file-clerk in the office have ventured out together. But Bessie has met up with a boy-friend and disappeared. Eloise does not hold a grudge against her for her desertion; it is understood that such accidents are likely to happen on Sunday afternoon. But she surveys the long lonely ride home with distaste. She chews her wad of Juicy Fruit dreamily and gives to the ukelele clutched to her diaphragm a pensive plunk.

It is at this moment that you sight her. You are strolling along the beach on your way in, after an arduous day of life-saving. Not that anyone has needed his life saved, but three blondes and two brunettes have required swimming lessons and all of them have been plump. By this time you prefer them slender; all the ladies tattooed on your arms are very slender indeed; and two of them wear red bathing-suits of the same shade as Eloise’s. You stop short when you see her and wonder if you haven’t seen her before somewhere. You decide that you haven’t; and regret the fact. You wonder if she has noticed you. If she has, she doesn’t show it. Not a missed beat has interrupted the mastication of her chewing-gum.

True to your vocation, adopt a nautical method of approach. In other words, tack. First walk along a line inclined at forty-five degrees to the most direct approach to Eloise. Somewhere at her right pause suddenly and examine a sand-crab. Then look up quickly, obviously under the impression that someone is calling you. After carefully looking at everything else on the beach, drop your eyes to Eloise, who blinks and turns away.

Sigh loudly and drop heavily and prone on the sand near her feet. Startled, she looks at you again. Grin and flip a pebble at her.

“Say!” says Eloise, indignantly.

“What do you say, girlie?” you counter. Then raise yourself in sections and redrape your lean length on the log next to her. “Ain’t you lonesome?” you add.

It is a rhetorical question purely, but she does not want to play. She chooses to take you literally.

“Not much,” she retorts. “I’m waiting for a guy.”

Answer promptly, “Not any more, you ain’t.”

She compresses her lips and ignores you, fingering the strings of the ukelele in an abstracted way. It has no effect. Pat her arm and say:

“Give us a tune, kid?”

“Fresh!” she says scornfully. “Who you crowding?”

“Aw, don’t be mean,” you plead. “Give us a tune.”

Eloise shakes her head quickly and decisively. “I didn’t ask you over!” she reminds you. It is a warning that she is on her guard; that she is a difficult proposition; that she is a Nice Girl.

“Well, gee, can’t a guy try to be human?” Your voice should be petulant and youthful. “I was just trying to be human. I was lonesome.” It is a plaintive speech, and you look plaintive. But nevertheless you are a masculine being, strong and undefeated. Probably it is the bathing suit, or perhaps the air with which you light your cigarette. Eloise gazes at your profile in uncertainty. End the pause by casting away the match and turning to her.

“So when I seen you I couldn’t help talking. If you don’t like it I’ll go away. I got my pride, too.”

This is a little better. “Oh, well, if you didn’t mean to be fresh. You know a girl has got to be careful.”

“Sure,” you say, nodding. “I betyoudo, all right.”

“What do you mean?”

“Aw, you know what I mean!” say to her ardently. “Anybody ever tell you your eyes are pretty?”

“Fresh!” She starts picking at the ukelele again, slightly confused.

“Come on now, babe,” you plead again. “Give us a tune.”

“I don’t know anything new,” she apologizes in advance. “Do you know that one ‘I Can’t Give You Anything But Love’?”

“Go ahead,” you murmur.

She plays the song, and then another, and another. The sun approaches the horizon and the ocean turns dark and green.

“Gee,” says Eloise in low tones, “I got to go.”

“Wait a minute, babe.” Stand up and rumple her hair affectionately before leaving. Eloise shrouds herself in her bathrobe and waits. Presently you come back through the night, carrying two hot-dogs dripping mustard.

“Surround that,” you order, proffering one. “It’s a swell night. Anybody worrying about you? You cold?”

She shakes her head hesitantly. “N-no. But I’ll have to go soon; it’s awfully late.”

You munch hungrily while the breeze dies down over the water. Then shift, disposing yourself more comfortably, and grunt contentedly. Eloise gives the head in her lap a little push, but it rolls back. She decides to ignore it.

“Gosh,” you say at last, “a night like this is enough to make anybody feel soft. Even a guy like me.”

“Yeah, I bet you’re a hard guy!” she cries.

Lift your head and prop it on your hand. “Say, listen, babe! Anybody who says I ain’t, don’t know me! Does anybody ever bother you? Some of these drugstore sheiks ever get fresh?”

She hangs her head. “Well....”

“Well,” cut her short, “if they do, send ’em around!” Make your voice ominous. “Don’t let anybody tell you different. Look here.” Raise your arm and clench your fist. “Feel that. There.”

Eloise puts out a tentative and timid finger. “Ooo!” she cries. “Yes, I guess youcouldhit. I guess I wouldn’t ever try to getyousore!”

“Baby,” murmur tenderly, “you couldn’t get me sore if you tried. I knew the minute I seen you you was a sweet kid. If anybody ever bothers you again, tell me. A nice kid like you hadn’t ought to go around without somebody taking care of you. I remember once....” Here you stop. Somewhere down the beach another ukelele plays softly. You sigh and grope through the dark. She tries futilely to dislodge you.

“I really got to be going,” she protests, somewhat frightened. She is always somewhat frightened when the fellows get too fresh.

“Now listen, babe. You ain’t afraid of me, You needn’t be. Don’t go away yet; you’re all right. Just a little longer.” And yet, as before, for all your pleading tones there should be a hint of strength in your speech. Eloise yields, but whether to your imploring or your strength she does not know.

“Well,” she says, “if you’re nice.”

Silence lives on the beach, except for the tiny wailing of the ukelele. Silently the water undulates and the moon creeps over the edge of it.

“Quit it!” says Eloise, giggling nervously. Do not answer. “Aw, quit!” Still you do not answer. “Please! You’re too strong. Oh, quit!”

The other ukelele still plays, spreading over the night a sweet layer of romance; singing of exotic love on a whiter, warmer beach in a more delicate world; singing of love, as though love were a thing to be sung.

TYPE:

The sensitive young man with a predilection for virtuous married women. Charmingly impetuous.

SUBJECT:

A virtuous married woman.

APPARATUS:

1 Living room1 Chaise-longue

1 Living room

1 Chaise-longue

REMARKS:

Love, maternal instinct and pity are all emotions that should be employed in this lesson, but the most important factor of all is spirituality. Never for one moment allow her to doubt your spiritual sincerity.

YOU’RE NOT THE DOMESTIC TYPE

The doorbell rings just as she is settling down to a nap, and there is no one else in the house to answer it. She opens the door a little reluctantly.

“Oh, it’s you, Arthur,” she says in relief. “Come in. I thought it might be someone special.”

“I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” say, smiling as you enter the living room. Smile nicely; youthfully. “I won’t go away, at any rate. Not unless you’re very hard and cruel. I worked too hard to get here.”

“It’s all right,” she says, sitting down and patting her hair in back. “I was going to lie down and try to sleep, out of sheer boredom. There’s nothing I really have to do. But you should be at work. Why aren’t you?”

“I didn’t feel like working.” Frown and look at her defiantly. “Good Lord, why should a man work all the time? I hate the bloody office anyway, and you know it.”

She shakes her head at you, but smiles. “I ought to scold you. But I know too well how you feel.”

“Why don’t you lie down even if I am here? Go on over to the chaise-longue; I’ll tuck your feet up.”

“Gracious!” she cries. “You’ll have me spoiled if you’re too attentive. Bob hasn’t your touching respect for my age.”

Thump the chair as you bend over to arrange the quilt. “Alice, that isn’t funny. It never was funny. At any rate, you mustn’t tell Bob how nice I am to you, or his dislike of me will overflow all bounds. That would be a nuisance. I’d have to visit you in the afternoons all the time, and they wouldn’t like that at the damned office.”

“No, and you wouldn’t ever get to see my new dinner dress.”

Sit down on the edge of the chair. “And I’d have to stay away on week-ends; I’d have to start playing golf, and I hate it. It’s much nicer to come here and talk.”

She laughs. “Yes, I know you think so. You’d rather talk than do anything else, wouldn’t you?”

“Wouldn’t you?” you counter. “But this sub rosa arrangement might have its advantages. If I had to be furtive you might be forced to take me seriously.”

“You’re a silly little boy,” she says, looking worried.

“Of course I am. I only wish you said it oftener. If you would only promise me to say every morning and every evening ‘What a silly boy Arthur is,’ I’d feel better about going home so often.”

“It wouldn’t be a difficult promise to make,” she says thoughtfully. “Perhaps I do it anyway. You’re awfully silly sometimes.”

“Good! At any rate, that would mean that you would say my name twice a day.”

“Heavens!”

“It did sound sentimental, didn’t it? Well, forget it. You know, I am serious about Bob: I wish he’d dislike me a little more actively.”

She sits up and speaks with decision. “Arthur! You know well enough that Bob doesn’t dislike you at all.”

“Is that it?” you ask, sorrowfully. “Then it’s his maddening indifference that I can’t forgive him. I won’t forgive him, anyway, so you might as well give up.”

“If it would make you feel any better, he said just the other evening, ‘Why doesn’t that kid get to work? He’s been hanging around here a lot longer than he would if I were his father.’”

“Yes,” you answer, “that helps. That helps. I feel almost kindly toward him now. I’m glad you told me.”

“You know well enough you like Bob!”

Shake your head. “It’s just another of my worries. I do like Bob. I love Bob. He’s such a child.”

She giggles. “Well, I wish he could hear you.”

“Yes, isn’t it funny? We go around feeling paternal about each other and you lie there and laugh at both of us. Let’s not talk about him any more. I’m not a sub rosa visitor yet; I haven’t any right to talk. Where’s Betty?”

“I sent her out to the Park for the afternoon.” She looks out of the window. “We’ve had such wretched weather until today. She’ll be heartbroken when she finds out you were here. Now that the family’s all discussed and taken care of, tell me how you are. Have you been doing anything wicked lately? Tell me some gossip about the younger generation.”

“What do I know about the younger generation? I haven’t been playing around. It’s queer restless weather. I’ve been trying to write. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed this air. There’s something in it. Even you must have noticed. It isn’t exactly wild. Spiritually provocative, I think—whatever that means.”

“Why shouldn’t I have noticed it?” she asks.

“You!” you cry bitterly. “A sublimely wise person like you? Alice dearest, why should you have noticed it? Or if you did, why should you admit it?”

She raised her eyebrows, somewhat surprised. “You sound angry,” is all she says. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing. I’m in a bad temper.”

“You really are,” she says wonderingly. “I’ve never seen you like this. Won’t you tell me what’s the matter?”

“Oh, for God’s sake! Why won’t you get angry? Why won’t you tell me to get out?”

“Arthur, what is the matter?” She speaks gently.

“I wish you’d get angry, just once. I’d like to fight and fight with you. I’d like to make you cry. I could, too, if I only knew how to begin.”

She looks at you in silence. Then go on—“Sit up, Alice! Sit up and slap me. Stop looking so damned comfortable. You don’t really feel comfortable.”

“But I do,” she protests. “I’m sorry, but I do.” It is funny, but she doesn’t laugh.

“No you aren’t. You’re sure enough of yourself; you’re secure, but you don’t like all this any more than I do.”

“All what?”

“All—all that you don’t like. Why can’t you tell me? I keep hoping you will, but you never do. Why can’t you tell me? I tell you everything. You have every bit of me. You make me tell you everything and then you never give anything back.”

“Arthur!” she cries, hurt.

“I can’t help it.” Lean closer to her startled face. “There’s just one thing I really want. Just one. The one thing I’ll never get from you.”

“What is it, dear?”

“I want you to tell me the truth. To look at me and say, ‘Arthur, I don’t really like this at all. I hate this house. I hate being smooth and perfect. I hate my mother for what she did to me, making me like this—’”

“Don’t!” she cries.

“‘And I hate my daughter for what I am making of her. I hate her when she looks like her father—’”

“No! No!”

“‘And I want to die when I realize that I am getting more and more like all of them, all the time.’ Go on, Alice. Say it.”

She shakes her head slowly, and weeps. “I can’t.”

“Say it!” you repeat. “I—Alice, I made you cry, didn’t I? Never mind. Say it.”

“No. The one thing you can never——” she cries convulsively.

“What is it, dearest?”

“You said it yourself,” she sobs. “The one thing you can never have. I won’t. I can’t.”

“Stop crying, dearest. Please. I can’t hear you when you talk like that. Darling, darling, I’m so sorry I made you cry. I’m so glad. Kiss me. You must, darling. It’s the only other thing to do. Alice, you know it is. Kiss me. If you won’t talk.... We must, dear.”

“Yes,” she says.

Take her in your arms.

TYPE:

The very young man with all distinguishing characteristics still in extremely early stages.

SUBJECT:

Any nice girl under fifteen years.

APPARATUS:

1 Porch swing.

REMARKS:

This lesson is relegated to the use of the kiddies; it is good for very little else. In this day of experience and the single standard it is passé, and I include it more as a curiosity than anything else. The beginner should know the fundamental principles, at any rate. For older participants in the game who wish to try their luck along these lines, I suggest more restraint. A few dark hints will go farther than any amount of explicit description. The imagination of an innocent girl can work wonders with a very slight encouragement.

I’M BAD

“But itisdifferent,” says the little girl, with an eager note in her voice. You give up the argument for a time and sit in silence, hearing only the creaking of the porch swing’s chain above the noises of the summer night.

She takes up the conversation again.

“I mean that supposing I should want to do all those things—some girls do, you know—well, I couldn’t. Of course it isn’t likely I should want to. I don’t see any fun in hanging on to the under part of a train——”

“Riding the blinds,” you say, patiently.

“All right; riding the blinds. But there might be something. Like—like staying up all night, perhaps, when it isn’t New Year’s. Bob used to do that. Mother didn’t think it was particularly terrible if he just said he was studying, but I can’t even do that. It isn’t fair. Here I am a senior in high school and practically grown up and they’ll always treat me like a baby just because I’m a girl.”

“Yeah,” say, as she stops for breath, “it’s a shame.” And this is as far as your sympathy goes. After all there isn’t much else to say. Nevertheless she feels slightly resentful.

“You don’t have to be so satisfied about it,” she says.

“I’m not satisfied. Only I don’t know what I’m supposed to do about it. I think myself you girls are pretty darned lucky. A man has to look out for himself, and believe me sometimes it isn’t so much fun as you think.”

“Well, even if——”

“No, you can say things like that for hours, but you can’t really tell until you have to try it. Why, I’d just like to see you in some of those situations.”

She is really impressed.

“What situations?”

“Aw, I couldn’t tell you. A fellow couldn’t really talk about some of it.”

“Oh, go on! I wouldn’t tell anyone!”

“You bet you wouldn’t! What if I told you that I was caught in a Raid?”

“Really? You’re not kidding? What kind of a raid?”

“Why, a—a Raid. There’s just one kind. The cops come in and pretty soon the music stops and——”

“Where?”

“’Xpect me to tell? Oh, well, then—Place called the Yellow Mill.”

“Oo, gee! Were you alone?”

“Was I alone! Don’t be such a dumb-bell. Of course I wasn’t alone. Do you suppose a fellow goes to those cabarets alone? Why, they wouldn’t let him in!”

“Then who was with you?”

“Never you mind. Some other men and some girls.”

“What girls? Anyone in school?”

“Maybe and maybe not.”

“Honest? Then it was. I’ll bet it was Eleanor.”

“Well, it just wasn’t. What do you think Eleanor is? A man wouldn’t take a NICE girl to the Yellow Mill.”

“Why—why Walter, you don’t know any other kind, do you?”

“Say, don’t judge everybody by yourself.”

“Well—what happened?”

“I told you what happened. The cops came in and the music stopped and some of the girls sort of screamed and then the cops started looking for booze.”

“Did you have any?”

“Well of course wehadhad some, but by the time——”

“Oh, Walter!”

“Gosh, don’t you think a fellow has to have a drink sometimes? By the time they came we had finished it.”

“What was it?”

“You wouldn’t know the difference if I told you. It was wine. Elmer got it from his old man.”

“Elmer Busby?”

“Nevermind. Well——”

“It was!”

“Well, what if it was? Do you want to hear about this?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Well, keep quiet. Well, there wasn’t any left when the cop came over to us, so he couldn’t prove anything. He just looked at us and said ‘All right. Outside!’”

“Then what?”

“Why—then we went home.”

“Gee, I’d have been scared to death.”

“Sure you would. Any girl would have been.”

She sighs and looks out over the front lawn.

“Maybe I wouldn’t have been scared, though. Maybe——”

“Sure you would have!”

“No, wait a minute. Maybe it would be fun to be scared sometimes.”

“Well, I’d think so, myself, but a girl wouldn’t. A nice girl.”

“Why, Walter! What a thing to say!”

“Well, I mean it. Look at the way all of you act—‘Oh, no, it wouldn’t be right—do you think we ought to?’”

“What are you talking about?”

“You. That’s just what you said the other night after the party when I tried——”

“Well, really, Walter, I don’t see what that has to do with raids.”

“Well, it’s the same thing.”

“Just because I didn’t let you kiss me?”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“I don’t like kissing.”

“You just don’t care. You never do let me kiss you. You don’t know anything about it. That’s the way girls are. No wonder you never have any fun.”

“Walter, I think you’re really bad.”

“Sure I’m bad! I have a good time. You don’t.”

“No, I don’t. But I didn’t mean that.”

“You’re afraid. That’s all.”

“Walter, I guess——” she stops.

“What?”

“I guess you can kiss me once. Don’t tell anybody.”

Silence.

“There now. What did you think?”

“I didn’t like it. It was horrid. If you tell anybody I’ll never speak to you again.”

“Well, then, try it again. I won’t tell anybody. Come on! What do you think I am? Sure I won’t tell anybody.”

“Oh, Walter, I bet you think I’m terrible.” “Of course I don’t. Don’t be a dumb-bell.” A sudden voice calls from the house.

“Willa! Willa, it’s ten-thirty!”

“Oh, Walter, I have to go.”

“Good night. Whatcha crying about? What is it, Willa?”

“Oh, you just think I’m terrible!”

“Honest I don’t. Can I come over tomorrow night?”

“You know you don’t want to. Oh, Mother’s calling again.”

“Sure I want to.”

“All right.”

“Good night. Listen, Willa. Honest I think it’s all right. I think you’re a good sport. Honest. Good night.”

TYPE:

The unscrupulous man without too much pride when it comes to women. Seemingly frank and open; the rough diamond with a soft heart; Punch wanting to be Hamlet.

SUBJECT:

Tender-hearted and impulsive. A very sweet character.

APPARATUS:

1 Automobile1 Package cigarettes.

1 Automobile

1 Package cigarettes.

REMARKS:

Scarcely a girl in the world is trained to be on her guard against pity. As a rule a young woman is sure that she is a difficult proposition because of her knowledge of the world and its wicked ways. She is looking, not for weakness, but for strength to combat; for presumption so that she may step on it. It does not occur to any normal girl that she might be taken unawares as an angel of consolation.

AN UGLY OLD THING LIKE ME

It is evening, and you are driving home from dinner in the country. It is a warm summer night and too early to be going back; you have already made a remark to that effect. Suddenly you turn the car into a private-looking road that leads away from the stream of home-going cars.

“Now what?” she asks.

“I want to show you a place I found once. Are you in any particular hurry?”

“No. What is this place?”

“You’ll find out in a minute.... Here we are.” The car comes to a stop in a natural sort of amphitheater, banked by high walls of rock on one side and well enclosed by shrubbery that is just becoming impassable with the full foliage of midsummer.

“It’s an old quarry,” explain to her. “Nice, isn’t it? I suppose in the daytime it’s full of picnic people, but I like it.”

“So do I,” she answers. There is a silence, and you both light cigarettes.

“Quiet,” you mutter. In the deep stillness the air seems full of life. Some animal crashes through the bushes, but the moonlight is not so bright as it seemed and you cannot see him. You sigh, throw your cigarette out onto the ground, and take the girl into your arms. She does not resist at first, except to say “Quit! You’ll burn yourself.” Then she too casts aside her cigarette and settles down comfortably. But you are too urgent for her.

“Wait a minute,” she gasps, sitting up with some difficulty and putting a careful hand to her hair. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing. I’m only human, that’s all.”

“Well, you weren’t acting human.”

“Sorry. Will you forgive me?”

“Sure.”

There is another silence, until she has to object again.

“Really,” she protests, “I don’t know what’s the matter with you tonight. You’ve never acted like this before.”

“I’m terribly sorry, really. I couldn’t stand it if I thought I’d offended you. We’ve been good friends; I don’t see why I have to spoil it like this.”

“Oh, it’s all right. I understand.”

“You’re awfully sweet, do you know it?”

“Am I really?”

“Much sweeter than anybody else.”

“Silly!”

“Ann, I do love you.”

“Well then, give me another cigarette.”

“No, not just now. Please!”

But after a little interlude of quiet, she protests.

“Arthur, listen. You simply must behave. I don’t feel that way; can’t you see? I like you a lot, but I just don’t feel that way. You can’t make me feel that way, either. I’m sorry. I’ll have to get mad in a minute.”

Don’t answer, but stare gloomily at the steering-wheel. She is a little worried.

“Arthur, what’s the matter? I wish you wouldn’t act that way. It makes me feel so mean. I don’t want to be mean. I just thought it would be better to tell the truth.”

Sigh and pat her hand.

“You’re perfectly right, dear. It’s just like you—honest even if you’re cruel.”

“Don’t be so silly. It isn’t cruel. I can’t help it if I can’t feel that way. I never feel that way.”

“Never?”

“Arthur, you know I like you better than anybody.”

“No, you don’t.”

“How can you tell? I don’t usually lie.”

“Nobody likes me.”

“Why, Arthur!” She pulls your head over to hers and kisses you. “There, silly.”

“Never mind, Ann,” say sadly. “Never mind. You don’t have to. You can always be perfectly honest with me. I understand.”

“Oh, you do not either!” She is impatient. “You don’t understand me at all, if you’re going to sulk like that. Here, kiss me.”

Then bury your face in her neck.

“Oh, Ann, you’re so sweet and I’m such a mess. I’m going to take you home. I’ll just make a fool of myself.”

“Why, Arthur?” she says, gently. “Don’t feel so badly. I understand.”

“You always understand, dear.”

“I can’t go home while you feel so badly. I want to be a friend of yours, Arthur.”

“Never mind. It’s all right. I know all about it. I don’t blame you.”

“Blame me? For what?”

“For not liking me Like That.”

“Like what?”

“Never mind. I should have thought of it before. You’re too sweet; you should have told me. Then I wouldn’t have bothered you.”

“But Arthur, you don’t bother me! What do you mean?”

“Please, Ann, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“You have to, now. You’ve started. I’ve got to know. What is it?”

“Never mind. I’m going to take you home.”

“You are not! I won’t go home. You sit right there and explain yourself.”

“Oh, darling, please let me take you home! Of course I understand. I should have thought of it right away. An ugly old thing like me....”

“Oh, Arthur!” She cries out in pain. “Arthur, how could you think of such a thing! Look at me!”

But don’t. She turns your face toward hers by gripping your ears. You are crying, and looking at you she begins to cry too, in pity.

“Arthur, how could you? How could you hurt me so?”

Put your arm around her and pat her on the shoulder.

“Never mind, Ann. Never mind, old girl, it’s all right.”

“Kiss me,” she murmurs, from the depths of your coat-collar.

“No.”

“Yes. Please, Arthur.”

“You don’t want to. You don’t feel that way. You’re just sorry for me.”

“No, no, no! Kiss me!”

Kiss her. She clings to your lips in an ecstasy of renunciation.

“Oh, Ann!” cry, with a break in your voice.

“What, darling? Never mind. Kiss me again.”

“Ann, you’d better be careful. Really, you’d better be careful.”

“Never mind, darling.”

“Ann, are you sure you won’t be sorry?”

She doesn’t answer.

“An ugly old thing like me, Ann....” But as might be expected, she clings to your coat lapel even harder.

“Ah, Ann, loveliest ... you’re not just sorry for me?”

Perhaps she shakes her head. You aren’t sure.

“Because, Ann,” you add, in an uncertain voice from which you try to keep the triumph, “I’m only human.”

There is no objection.

TYPE:

The young man who can be sincere in declaration of his radical sympathies. Any one who does not really believe in his expressed opinions will probably fail.

SUBJECT:

Passionately impersonal; burning with zeal to destroy the wrongs of the world. Not much given to paying attention to her own emotions, preferring rather to settle universal problems in the mass.

APPARATUS:

1 City1 Brief case

1 City

1 Brief case

REMARKS:

Most of ardent advocates of social improvement are the products of conventional environment. They are inclined to class together all of the rules of conduct which they have denounced as part of a deliberate scheme to slow up the progress of humanity’s freedom. If you can associate in their minds the conventional concept of morality with the mossgrown ideas of property and government so horrible to the advanced thinker, you are well on the road to success.

BE INDEPENDENT!

Walking home from the meeting of the Social Science Club, you are more quiet than usual. It is strange that you should be quiet at all; you aren’t that type. Both of you love to talk; your intimacy has grown up in spite of, rather than because of this tendency. You became acquainted two or three months before, across the crowded room of the Communist Club when you both leaped to your feet to refute some heretical statement by the speaker of the evening, who had expressed an unsound and intolerant view concerning Union rule. You had cried out together in protest, turned and looked at each other, faltered, and sat down. Then you both had risen again, even more precipitately, looked at each other again in a less amiable manner, and started to speak again. The crowd laughed. At last she had bowed to you jerkily and sat down again, leaving the field to you.

But when she heard what you had to say she did not dislike you so much. You expressed her views exactly. To be sure, you did not say all there was to be said, and when you finished she had to make several additions. But after the meeting you waited for each other and took up the thread of the argument again. You walked five miles that night and didn’t notice. Ever since then you have been seeing a good deal of each other, at little Russian restaurants where each pays his own check, at concerts where you each firmly buy your own tickets, and even at her home, where her family gazes upon you with disfavor and tries to persuade her to wear a hat when she goes out with you.

Tonight there is a tension in the air between you, and you do not know what to do about it. She has been quarreling with her family and you have discussed it backwards and forwards and all around; there was no more to say.

“I don’t understand you at all,” repeat for the twentieth time. “You’re so intelligent about everything but your own affairs. Can’t you see that you must attack your own problem with an impersonal sort of attitude? It’s the only sensible way to do anything.”

“Yes, I know,” she answers, gloomily, “but you don’t understand, exactly. I have to battle against all the fifteen years that I was under their influence, besides fightingthem. There’s an element within myself that I can’t manage. All sorts of feelings——”

“I know,” sympathetically, “anachronistic ideas of duty, and filial fondness, and so forth. They work on all that. Thank God my mother deserted me when I was a baby. Father’s different.”

“You’re lucky,” she says. “It makes me furious. After all, I’m of age, and a lot more intelligent than they’ll ever be.... Well, we’ve said all that. I’ll just have to let it work itself out.”

“It won’t,” you assure her. “The only way to settle a thing of this sort is to cut it all off. Why don’t you go away?”

“How can I?” she says. “I haven’t the moral courage to hold out against them. I could go down and live with Marya for a week or so, but you know what would happen. First Ellen would walk in and talk to me, pretending to admire me but holding her skirts away from the furniture all the time. She’d tell me that Mother hasn’t been well lately, and then they’d invite me to the house for dinner and they’d act simply angelic and rather pitiful, and then I’d come back. I always do; it’s happened before. I know I’m weak, but it’s stronger than my intelligence.”

“Of course that’s one thing I’ll never be able to understand. How anyone could stand that house for two hours passes my comprehension, and you’ve been living there all your life. How do you do any work?”

“I don’t,” she says, simply. “I haven’t really done anything definite since the last election. You can’t work any conviction into your speeches if there are a lot of materialists around all the time. Oh, I ought to starve! How can I go on pretending like this?”

“Never mind. You’re getting there. There’s nothing wrong with a person that could get away from her environment as completely as you have. But I can see that it’s a struggle.”

“Thank you,” she says, gratefully. You walk on in silence.

“Martha,” you say at last, “I know one way out.”

“What is it?”

“Come with me.”

“With you? But where?”

“Come on home with me. I’ll tell Father that you’re going to stay there, and that’ll be all there is to it. He won’t object; he knows better.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” she says, hastily.

“Why not? It would settle things with your family. I know that type. They’d never bother you again; they would cut you off completely.”

She is staggered, and obviously does not know how to answer.

“You’re a real friend,” she says, at last. “It’s good of you to offer. But....”

“Not so generous, after all. Certainly I don’t have to tell you that I love you and all that, do I? We know better than to waste our time with such sentimental stuff. But you know that I’d be only too glad....”

“I don’t know,” she says, thoughtfully. “Honestly, I never thought about it. It’s part of my training, I suppose, but it’s hard to decide to do a thing like that, right away.”

“Think of it in a sensible way,” you urge. “Try to throw away those inhibitions. You know well enough that in the course of time we would be lovers. Isn’t this better than slinking and being furtive about it, and fooling your family? I’d hate it. As a matter of fact, Ihavebeen worrying about it. This would be such a fine, brave thing for you to do. Come on, Martha, be independent. Prove to yourself that you’re something more than an average female who wants nothing but security.”

“But it’s so difficult,” she says. “You don’t understand. It would kill Mother.”

“You know it wouldn’t. She might think that she’s going to die, but she won’t. People don’t die over such things. And if she did,” you add, superbly, “she wouldn’t have any right to. No one has any right to die because someone else lives up to her convictions.”

“That doesn’t help it, somehow,” she says.

“Martha, admit to yourself that it’s the only thing to do. You can’t go on like this. If you do, they’ll sell you to some capitalist for a marriage license and a promise that he’ll leave you money when he dies. You’ll be part of the same vicious circle. You can’t play at both of the games, Martha. If you don’t take your freedom when you have the chance I’ll have to decide that you’re insincere.”

She looks very undecided and unhappy. “I don’t know what’s the matter,” she confesses, “but I can’t.”

Stop and take her arm. She turns around and faces you in the dark street. It is very late and quiet.

“Listen, Martha,” you say gravely, “it’s up to you. I don’t want to persuade you to do anything that you don’t really feel you want to do. But I think that I understand you. You have a beautiful nature, Martha. You have a splendid mind that your family weren’t able to spoil. As soon as you are strong enough to cast off all the deadly conventions that they’ve tied you with, you’ll be able to do real things for the world. And yet that isn’t what I want to say to you now. I respect and admire you, Martha, and I want you. You want me. What else is there to this business? Come with me, Martha, and we’ll work together. Throw away that background of yours. Step out into the light.”

“Oh, Michael!” she cries. Your face relaxes, and you smile.

Say, “There now, let’s do it all, right now. Go home and get your things. I’ll go with you, if you like. Then they can do what they want to; I know you won’t back out.”

Arm in arm, you walk down the street.

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