It was at one of these little parties, the room ringed with fat, chatting mothers whose conversation did not so absorb them that they failed to notice any action, however insignificant, that Mimi met Carl Hunter. Hilda brought him to her with the simple introduction, “Mimi, this is Carl.” He, giving her a quick glance that seemed to her to take in not only her physical self but to pry down deep into her innermost thoughts, paused a minute before speaking. When he did speak his greeting was only a cool “Hello.” Others passing stopped and the conversation in the little group became general. When she looked again Carl had gone. She did not see him again but on the way home she spoke of him to Hilda.
“I don’t think much of your friend, Hilda,” she said. “He didn’t say anything and he seems to have an awfully good opinion of himself.”
“No—no, Mimi, you mustn’t say that,” Hilda quickly defended him. “That’s just his way—you just wait until you know him and you’ll think differently.”
“Dear, I don’t want to hurt your feelings but from what I’ve seen I’m almost sure I don’t want to know him.”
“It’s too bad he’s going away. He told me his father’s going to let him go away and work this summer and then enter school up North next fall. Oh, dear! I don’t know what I’ll do—he thinks I’m nothing but a little girl but he’s only seventeen and I’m going on fifteen.”
The despair of unrequited love in her voice—and what pangs of love can be more acute, more painful, more deliriously ecstatic than those of youth?—touched Mimi deeply.