away from me …" She turned toward Gaylord. "Honey, I've got to run along. Don't forget … call me." She grinned at Joy. "Bye … be careful of Gay … he's a hot number." She looked back at Gaylord and patted his cheek. "Aren't you, handsome?"
Gaylord was speechless. Stood there statuelike watching her swing her purse, watched her as she almost glided down the sidewalk.
"She's a character, isn't she?" Joy grinned, wrinkling her cute little nose. Her eyes sparkled like the opal ring she wore.
"She sure is … I hope you don't think …"
"I don't think anything of her or what she says."
"She sure looks older than eighteen, doesn't she?" Gaylord tried to make conversation.
"She looks thirty."
"She used to be pretty. She's still pretty but …"
"Pretty?"
"Well, sort of …"
"I don't think so," she challenged. "I think she's awful and cheap looking. She wears too much paint and that gawdy purse looks like it's big enough to carry supplies in it, and she probably does. And that dress … pinned down with those cheap imitation diamond pins."
"I guess you're right."
"I certainly am."
And it came to Gaylord that he was in a bad spot. Because of Thelma he was afraid of what Joy would think of him. He took out his handkerchief, and dabbed clumsily at his nose. His fair face was so filled with concern that he looked funny. Joy suddenly found that she had said too much. She was afraid that now she was going to laugh. But then she remembered that she used to play with Gaylord as a child, that she had loved this boy who was now a stranger, that she had liked playing with him very much—and after that she didn't feel like laughing.
"Thelma's the type that men like and women hate," she said.
"I don't like her."
She took his arm and they started walking. "I'm glad you don't, Gay … she's not for you."
