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Updated: July 3, 2025
There is a dream lying somewhere there, dear, which is stirring the slumber of mankind, but the awakening will not be in my time certainly, and perhaps not even in Girlie's. And yet, why not? Do you know, dearest, what it was in your wonderful book which thrilled me most?
The graphophone was playing in the saloon. Its music some raucous, comic song insulted the night. "Why, no," said Dickie, "I don't hate Millings. I never thought about it that way. It's not such a bad place. Honest, it isn't. There's lots of fine folks in it. Have you met Jim Greely?" "Why, no, but I've seen him. Isn't that Girlie's 'fellow'?" Dickie made round, respectful eyes.
Girlie was playing the piano, Babe's voice, "sassing Poppa," was audible from one end to the other of the empty street. Her laughter slapped the air. Dickie hesitated. He was afraid of them all of Sylvester's pensive, small, brown eyes and hard, long hands, of Babe's bodily vigor, of Girlie's mild contemptuous look, of his mother's gloomy, furtive tenderness.
The offer was graciousness itself, but it implied such a lack on Girlie's part that she felt vaguely uncomfortable. She sat digging the toe of her slipper against the leg of the bench. "I don't know," she stammered finally. "Maybe I can't come often. It makes me wigglesome to sit still too long and listen." "We might try it this morning to see how you like it," persisted Mary.
Why just for the credit of Millings, she's gotta go." "Why fuss her about it, if she don't want to?" Girlie's soft voice was poured like oil on the troubled billows of Babe's outburst. "I'll see to her," Sylvester's chair scraped the floor as he rose. "I know how to manage girls. Trust Poppa!" He pushed through the door, followed by Babe. Sheila looked up at him helplessly.
Sheila, standing near Girlie's elbow, felt the exhilaration which youth does feel at the impact of explosive noise and motion, the stamping of feet, the shouting, the loud laughter, the music, the bounding, prancing bodies: savagery in a good humor, childhood again, but without the painful intensity of childhood.
Her lazy eyes, as reflective and receptive and inexpressive as small meadow pools under a summer sky, rested upon Sheila. In the parlor a pleasant baritone voice was singing, "Treat me nice, Miss Mandy Jane, Treat me nice. Don't you know I'se not to blame, Lovers all act just the same, Treat me nice..." Girlie's fingers tightened on the doorknob.
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