“I think I’d love to ski.  Is it awfully hard to learn?”

“No, ma’am.  It’s just dandy.  Especially on a moonlight night, like night before last.  And if you’d ‘a’ had skis on you wouldn’t ‘a’ broke through.  You go along so quiet and easy, pushing yourself a little with your pole.  There’s a kind of a swing to it—­”

He stood up and threw his light, thin body gracefully into the skier’s pose.  “See?  You slide on one foot, then on the other.  It’s as easy as dreaming, and as still.”

“It’s like a gondola—­” suggested Sheila.

Dickie put his head on one side and Sheila explained.  She also sang a snatch of a Gondel-lied to show him the motion.

“Yes’m,” said Dickie.  “It’s like that.  It kind of has a—­has a—­”

“Rhythm?”

“I guess that’s the word.  So’s riding.  I like to do the things that have that.”

“Well, then, you ought to like dancing.”

“Yes’m.  Maybe I would if it wasn’t for havin’ to pull a girl round about with me.  It kind of takes my mind off the pleasure.”

Sheila laughed.  Then, “Did you get my note?” she asked.

“Yes’m.”  Her laughter had embarrassed him, and he had suddenly a hunted look.

“And are you going to be my friend?”

The sliding of feet on a floor none too smooth, the music, the wailing of a baby accompanied Dickie’s silence.  He was very silent and sat very still, his hands hanging between his knees, his head bent.  He stared at Sheila’s feet.  His face, what she could see of it, was, even beyond the help of firelight, pale.

“Why, Dickie, I believe you’re going to say No!”

“Some fellows would say Yes,” Dickie answered.  “But I sort of promised not to be your friend.  Poppa said I’d kind of disgust you.  And I figure that I would—­”

Sheila hesitated.

“You mean because you—­you—?”

“Yes’m.”

“Can’t you stop?”

He shook his head and gave her a tormented look.

“Oh, Dickie!  Of course you can!  At your age!”

“Seems like it means more to me than anything else.”

“Dickie!  Dickie!”

“Yes’m.  It kind of takes the awful edge off things.”

“What do you mean?  I don’t understand.”

“Things are so sort of—­sharp to me.  I mean, I don’t know if I can tell you.  I feel like I had to put something between me and—­and things.  Oh, damn!  I can’t make you see—­”

“No,” said Sheila, distressed.

“It’s always that-a-way,” Dickie went on.  “I mean, everything’s kind of—­too much.  I used to run miles when I was a kid.  And sometimes now when I can get out and walk or ski, the feeling goes.  But other times—­well, ma’am, whiskey sort of takes the edge off and lets something kind of slack down that gets sort of screwed up.  Oh, I don’t know ...”

“Did you ever go to a doctor about it?”

Dickie looked up at her and smiled.  It was the sweetest smile—­so patient of this misunderstanding of hers.  “No, ma’am.”