🎧 270: An hour later, ...

     An hour later, Great-Grandfather Huber had subscribed to Professor Clapp’s entire five-foot shelf of books and bought one of Herb’s expandable five-foot shelves, and he had also written a letter of introduction for Herb and given him the names of half a dozen friends and business associates whom he considered likely prospects.
     When Lorna and Herb were standing alone at the door again, Lorna said, “Well, Herb Piper, you really can sell books.”
     Herb laughed. “Thanks,” he said. “I didn’t need your help, you know.”
     “Oh, I’m sure of that,” said Lorna. She raised her eyebrows.
     “I didn’t,” insisted Herb. He laughed again. “It didn’t hurt, though. Who do you suppose your mother and father thought I was?”
     Lorna couldn’t keep from giggling. “I haven’t any idea,” she said. “They were sure they ought to know you, and so I suppose they made themselves remember you.”
     “They seemed sorry for me,” said Herb. “I — I think I took advantage of them.”
     “Oh, no,” said Lorna. “You didn’t. You just — let them think what they wanted to think. You were really only being polite. They would have been terribly embarrassed if you had told them that they were wrong about you.”
     “You don’t think there’s a chance that they really do know me, do you?” asked Herb. The thought had occurred to him that they might have been investors in his father’s cork furniture business.
     “No,” said Lorna. She pursed her lips. She shook her head. “They couldn’t, not unless you had lived in Chacallit. My mother and father have been here forever and ever.”
     “Well, thanks for giving them the impression that they ought to know me,” said Herb. He grinned, and he offered her his hand to shake. She shook it. She stepped onto the porch and closed the door behind her.
     “It’s stopped raining,” she said. She walked to the railing, leaned on it, and looked up at the sky, where a bit of moon lit the thinning clouds from behind.
    “Yes,” said Herb. “It has.” He put his hat on, stood straight, and said, “Good evening.”
     “You’re quite right,” said Lorna.
     “May I call you Lorna?” asked Herb.
     Lorna was surprised to find that the thought that he was going to leave in a minute or two made her feel colder suddenly, as if a breeze had come up, though the air was still. Something told her to hide the feeling from Herb. That something, that damned something, was the sense of personal dignity that is one of our most civilized attributes, the source of so many of our discontents, the cause of so many missed opportunities. I make that judgment nearly seventy years after the fact, but I have support for it from May Castle:

     Oh, you know it’s just the damnedest thing, isn’t it, the way we hold ourselves back! Of course, in the long run it’s probably for the best that we do, or we’d be throwing ourselves at half the people we meet and throwing stones at the others. But how many times have I said to myself, “Oh, damn! Why didn’t I let myself go and try dancing the tango?” Well, that may not be the best example — I always do try dancing the tango whenever the opportunity presents itself, and I’ve gotten quite good at it over the years — which is just my point, isn’t it? But I’ve never gone into one of those saunas, you see. There I’ve held myself back, because I’ve thought I’d look foolish. Well, that’s just the way Lorna felt, I’m sure.

     It’s a negative desire: not to lose one’s dignity, not to look foolish. It may be love’s worst enemy. It made Lorna let Herb leave for the war without giving herself a chance to fall in love with him. She didn’t want to look foolish, to look like an infatuated girl, so she continued to behave as if she were only playing with Herb. She said, “You can call me Cinderella if you like — that’s what my sisters call me.”
     “Hmm,” said Herb. “Cinderella.” He was disappointed. He liked Lorna, and he knew that he was going to see her face when he closed his eyes that night, and perhaps for many nights to come. He knew that for days he was going to be concocting, too late, clever answers to her questions, parries for her taunts. He had had, when she stepped onto the porch with him, the crazy idea that he might ask her to write to him while he was away, and that she just might agree to do so. It seemed to him now that she had only been playing with him, that there was nothing underlying her playfulness but the boredom of a rainy evening. He put his hat on. “Good night, Cinderella,” he said.

In Topical Guide 270, Mark Dorset considers Dance: The Tango from this episode.

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