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270 because he thought Norry could help him but be¬ cause he had to talk to somebody and Norry already knew the worst. They went walking far out into the country, idly discussing campus gossip or pausing to revel in the beauty of the night, the clear, clean sky, the pale moon, the fireflies spar¬ kling suddenly over the meadows or even to the tree-tops. Weary from their long walk, they sat down on a stump, and Hugh let the dam of his emotion break. “Norry,” he began intensely, “I’m in hell—in hell. It’s a week since Prom, and I have n’t had a line from Cynthia. I have n’t dared write to her.”

“Why not?”

“She—she—oh, damn it!—she told me before she left that everything was all off. That’s why she left early. She said that we did n’t love each other, that all we felt was sex attraction. I don’t know whether she’s right or not, but I miss her like the devil. I—I feel empty, sort of hollow in¬ side, as if everything had suddenly been poured out of me—and there’s nothing to take its place. I was full of Cynthia, you see, and now there’s no Cynthia. There’s nothing left but—oh, God, Norry, I’m ashamed of myself. I feel—dirty.” The last word was hardly audible.

Norry touched his arm. “I know, Hugh, and I’m awfully sorry. I think, though, that Cynthia