Paradise Garden. George Gibbs
the stream goes through the wall. I crawled under where the iron is bent. If you're afraid of women you'd better have it fixed."
"Afraid!" It was one word that Jerry detested. "Afraid! That's funny. Do you think I'm afraid of you?"
"Yes," she replied, eyeing him critically. "I rather think you are."
"Well, I—I'm not. It would take more than a woman to make me afraid."
Something in the turn of the phrase and tone of voice made her turn and examine him with a new interest.
"You're a queer boy," she said.
"How—queer?" he muttered.
"You look and act as though you'd never seen a girl before."
If he had known women better he wouldn't have believed that she meant what she said. As it was, her wizardry astounded him.
"How can you tell that?"
She was now regarding him wide-eyed in amazement.
"It's true, then?" she gasped.
"Yes, it's true. You're the first girl that I remember having seen. But what difference does that make? Why should I be afraid of you? You couldn't hurt a flea. You can talk pretty well, but talk never killed anybody."
She seemed stricken suddenly dumb and regarded him with an air which to anyone but Jerry would have shown her as discomfited as he.
"Do you mean that you've lived all your life a prisoner inside this wall and never seen a woman?" she asked incredulously.
"That depends upon what you mean by prisoner," said Jerry. "If having everything you want, doing everything you want is being a prisoner, I suppose that's what I am."
"Extraordinary! And you've had no curiosity to go out—to see the world?"
"No. I'm going soon, but I don't care about it. There isn't anything out there half as good as what I've got."
"How do you know if you haven't been there?"
"Oh, I know. I've heard. I read a great deal."
Jerry told me (in our second conversation) that he wondered why he still stood there talking to her. He supposed it was because he thought he had been impolite enough. But she made no move to go.
"What have you heard?" she asked again. "I suppose you thought that a girl had horns and a tail."
Unconsciously his gaze wandered down over her slim figure. Then he burst into a sudden fit of laughter.
"You're funny," he said.
"Not half as funny as I would be if I had them."
"You might have a tail twisted under your dress for all I know. What do girls wear skirts for?"
"To keep them warm. Why do you wear trousers?"
"Trousers aren't silly. Skirts are."
"That depends on who's in them."
He was forced to admit the logic of that. Skirts might be silly, but she wasn't. She interested him, this strange creature that talked back, not in the least like Miss Redwood. The jade! Jerry did not know their tricks as I did. She was reading him, I haven't a doubt, like an open book. It was a pity. I hadn't yet prepared Jerry for this encounter. The girl had moved two or three paces away when she paused again.
"What's your name?" she asked suddenly.
"Jerry."
"That's a nice name. I think it's like you."
"How—like me?"
"Oh, I don't know—boyish and rather jolly, in spite of being Jeremiah. It is Jeremiah, isn't it?"
He nodded.
"I was sure of it. It was Jeremiah who wanted to throw me over the wall, but it was Jerry who didn't. Which are you really? If you're Jerry I'm not afraid of you in the least. But if you're Jeremiah, I must go at once."
He smiled at her.
"Oh, that's all right. You needn't hurry. I wouldn't hurt you. You seem to be a very sprightly sort of a creature. You laugh as though you really meant it. What's your name? I've told you mine."
"Una."
"H-m. That means 'first'."
"But not the last. There are five others—all girls."
"Girls! What a pity!"
She must have glanced around at him quickly, with that bird-like pertness I discovered later. He was declaring war, himself defenseless, and was not even aware of it.
"You're not flattering. A pity! Why?"
"It's too bad if you had to be born why some of you couldn't have been boys. You'd have been a fine sort of a boy, I think."
"Would I really?" she said. "A better sort of a boy than I am a girl?"
He shrugged his shoulders, oblivious of the bait for flattery.
"How should I know what sort of a girl you are? You seem sensible enough and you're not easily frightened. You know, I—I rather like you."
"Really!"
He missed the smile and note of antagonism and went on quickly:
"You're fond of the woods, aren't you? Do you know the birds? They like this place. And butterflies—I'd like to show you my collection."
"Oh, you collect?"
"Of course—specimens of all kinds. Birds, eggs, nests, lepidoptera—I've got a museum down at the Manor. Next year you'll have to come and see it."
"Next year!"
"Yes. You see—" Jerry's pause must have been that of embarrassment. I think he realized that he had been going it rather rapidly. I didn't hear this part of the dialogue until our third conversation. "Well, you see, I'm not supposed to see any—any females until I'm twenty-one. Not that I've ever wanted to, you know, but it seems rather foolish that I can't ask you down, if you'd like to come."
Can you visualize a very modern young woman during this ingenuous revelation? Jerry said that close, cool inspection of her slate-blue eyes (he had, you see, also identified their color) rather disconcerted him.
"I'm sure I should be delighted to come," she said with a gravity which to anyone but Jerry would have made her an object of suspicion.
Jerry shook his head.
"But I—I'm afraid it wouldn't do. I've never given my word, but it's an understanding—"
"With whom?"
"With Roger. He's my tutor, you know."
"Oh, I see. And Roger objects to—er—females?"
"Oh, yes, and so do I. They're so useless—most of them. You don't mind my saying so, do you?"
"Oh, not at all," she replied, though I'm sure her lips must have been twitching.
"Of course, you're different. You're really very like a boy. And I don't doubt you're very capable."
"How—capable?"
"You look as if you could do things—I mean useful things."
At this she sank on a rock and buried her face in her hands, quivering from head to foot. Jerry thought that she was crying.
"What's the—?"
She threw out her arms, leaned back against a tree, her long suppressed merriment bubbling forth unrestrained.
"Oh, you'll be the death of me," she laughed, the tears running down her cheeks. "I can't stand being bottled up another minute. I can't."
Jerry was offended.
"I don't