Kennicott was masculine and experimental.  He stroked Vida’s hand, he put his arm carelessly about her shoulder.

“Don’t!” she said sharply.

“You’re a cunning thing,” he offered, patting the back of her shoulder in an exploratory manner.

While she strained away, she longed to move nearer to him.  He bent over, looked at her knowingly.  She glanced down at his left hand as it touched her knee.  She sprang up, started noisily and needlessly to wash the dishes.  He helped her.  He was too lazy to adventure further—­and too used to women in his profession.  She was grateful for the impersonality of his talk.  It enabled her to gain control.  She knew that she had skirted wild thoughts.

A month after, on a sleighing-party, under the buffalo robes in the bob-sled, he whispered, “You pretend to be a grown-up schoolteacher, but you’re nothing but a kiddie.”  His arm was about her.  She resisted.

“Don’t you like the poor lonely bachelor?” he yammered in a fatuous way.

“No, I don’t!  You don’t care for me in the least.  You’re just practising on me.”

“You’re so mean!  I’m terribly fond of you.”

“I’m not of you.  And I’m not going to let myself be fond of you, either.”

He persistently drew her toward him.  She clutched his arm.  Then she threw off the robe, climbed out of the sled, raced after it with Harry Haydock.  At the dance which followed the sleigh-ride Kennicott was devoted to the watery prettiness of Maud Dyer, and Vida was noisily interested in getting up a Virginia Reel.  Without seeming to watch Kennicott, she knew that he did not once look at her.

That was all of her first love-affair.

He gave no sign of remembering that he was “terribly fond.”  She waited for him; she reveled in longing, and in a sense of guilt because she longed.  She told herself that she did not want part of him; unless he gave her all his devotion she would never let him touch her; and when she found that she was probably lying, she burned with scorn.  She fought it out in prayer.  She knelt in a pink flannel nightgown, her thin hair down her back, her forehead as full of horror as a mask of tragedy, while she identified her love for the Son of God with her love for a mortal, and wondered if any other woman had ever been so sacrilegious.  She wanted to be a nun and observe perpetual adoration.  She bought a rosary, but she had been so bitterly reared as a Protestant that she could not bring herself to use it.

Yet none of her intimates in the school and in the boarding-house knew of her abyss of passion.  They said she was “so optimistic.”

When she heard that Kennicott was to marry a girl, pretty, young, and imposingly from the Cities, Vida despaired.  She congratulated Kennicott; carelessly ascertained from him the hour of marriage.  At that hour, sitting in her room, Vida pictured the wedding in St. Paul.  Full of an ecstasy which horrified her, she followed Kennicott and the girl who had stolen her place, followed them to the train, through the evening, the night.