Sheilah was still walking on air when somebody sang out from behind in a loud and cheery voice, 'Hello there, Sheilah Miller! What's the rush?' Sheilah stopped and turned around. It was Nevin Baldwin.
He wore light brown knickerbockers of a rough wiry texture, heavy golf stockings to match, and a thin clinging sweater of the same Irish-terrier tan over a soft white shirt. And no hat. He had run out from his front door quickly, without preparation apparently, when he saw Sheilah pass by the corner of the street. His hands were bare also. But not white, like Felix Nawn's. Red—dark brownish red. The color of rocks at the seashore. And looked as hard and firm.
'What do you want?' asked Sheilah.
'For-the-love-of-Mike, do I have to want something?'
'Oh, not at all. Let's sit down under the apple-blossoms and chat.'
'Come on. I'll walk along with you.'
'That way? Do you know it's only four above?' She glanced at his bare head. His thick, curly, close-cut hair was shining with a recent application of water and brushes. 'It's beautiful, I know,' she tittered, 'but it will freeze out here.'
'I'll risk it. Come on. Give me that bag.'
'Don't you put on airs, Nevin, just because you've
