George felt so utterly lonely and dejected that he wanted to weep but pride made him walk rapidly along, swinging his arms.  He came to Wesley Moyer’s livery barn and stopped in the shadows to listen to a group of men who talked of a race Wesley’s stallion, Tony Tip, had won at the Fair during the afternoon.  A crowd had gathered in front of the barn and before the crowd walked Wesley, prancing up and down boasting.  He held a whip in his hand and kept tapping the ground.  Little puffs of dust arose in the lamplight.  “Hell, quit your talking,” Wesley exclaimed.  “I wasn’t afraid, I knew I had ’em beat all the time.  I wasn’t afraid.”

Ordinarily George Willard would have been intensely interested in the boasting of Moyer, the horseman.  Now it made him angry.  He turned and hurried away along the street.  “Old windbag,” he sputtered.  “Why does he want to be bragging?  Why don’t he shut up?”

George went into a vacant lot and, as he hurried along, fell over a pile of rubbish.  A nail protruding from an empty barrel tore his trousers.  He sat down on the ground and swore.  With a pin he mended the torn place and then arose and went on.  “I’ll go to Helen White’s house, that’s what I’ll do.  I’ll walk right in.  I’ll say that I want to see her.  I’ll walk right in and sit down, that’s what I’ll do,” he declared, climbing over a fence and beginning to run.

* * *

On the veranda of Banker White’s house Helen was restless and distraught.  The instructor sat between the mother and daughter.  His talk wearied the girl.  Although he had also been raised in an Ohio town, the instructor began to put on the airs of the city.  He wanted to appear cosmopolitan.  “I like the chance you have given me to study the background out of which most of our girls come,” he declared.  “It was good of you, Mrs. White, to have me down for the day.”  He turned to Helen and laughed.  “Your life is still bound up with the life of this town?” he asked.  “There are people here in whom you are interested?” To the girl his voice sounded pompous and heavy.

Helen arose and went into the house.  At the door leading to a garden at the back she stopped and stood listening.  Her mother began to talk.  “There is no one here fit to associate with a girl of Helen’s breeding,” she said.

Helen ran down a flight of stairs at the back of the house and into the garden.  In the darkness she stopped and stood trembling.  It seemed to her that the world was full of meaningless people saying words.  Afire with eagerness she ran through a garden gate and, turning a corner by the banker’s barn, went into a little side street.  “George!  Where are you, George?” she cried, filled with nervous excitement.  She stopped running, and leaned against a tree to laugh hysterically.  Along the dark little street came George Willard, still saying words.  “I’m going to walk right into her house.  I’ll go right in and sit down,” he declared as he came up to her.  He stopped and stared stupidly.  “Come on,” he said and took hold of her hand.  With hanging heads they walked away along the street under the trees.  Dry leaves rustled under foot.  Now that he had found her George wondered what he had better do and say.