“She’s pretty—­and she’s good,” thought Wesley Dean.  “I expect she’s too good for me.”

But that unwontedly humble thought did not alter it a hair’s breadth that she must be his.  The Deans had their way always.  The veins in his wrists and the vein in his forehead beat with his hot purpose.  He shifted so that his arm did not touch hers, for he found the nearness of her disturbing; he could not plan or think clearly while she was so close.  And he must think clearly.

When the last flicker of the feature was over and the comic and the news had wrung their last laugh and gasp of interest from the crowd, they joined the slow exit of the audience in silence.  On the sidewalk, however, she found her voice.

“It was an awful nice picture,” she said softly. “’Most the nicest I ever saw.”

“Look here, let’s go somewhere and have a hot choc’late, or some soda, or ice cream,” he broke in hurriedly.  He could not let her go with so much yet unsaid.  “Or would you like an oyster stew in a reg’lar restaurant?  Yes, that’d be better.  Come on; it isn’t late.”

“Well, after all those caramels, I shouldn’t think an oyster stew——­”

“You can have something else, then.”  The main thing was to get her at a table opposite him, where they wouldn’t have to hurry away.  “Let’s go in there.”

He pointed toward a small restaurant across the street where red candlelights glimmered warmly through panelled lace.

“But that looks like such a stylish place,” she protested, even as she let him guide her toward it.

But it was not so stylish when they got inside, and the appearance of the stout woman, evidently both proprietor and cashier, who presided over the scene at a table on a low platform near the door reassured them both.  And the red candleshades were only crinkled paper; the lace curtains showed many careful darns.  A rebellious boy of fourteen, in a white jacket and apron, evidently the proprietor’s son, came to take their order.  After a good bit of urging Anita said that she would take a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee.

Wesley ordered an oyster stew for himself, and coffee, and then grandly added that they would both have vanilla and chocolate ice cream.

“He looks as if he just hated being a waiter,” said Anita, indicating the departing boy servitor.

“Sh’d think he would,” said Wesley.  He put his arms on the table and leaned toward her.  “I was going home this afternoon till I saw you.  I stayed over just to see you again.  I’ve got to go back in the morning, for I’ve not got my spring work done; but—­you’re going with me.”

The vein on his forehead heightened his look of desperate determination.  He was not so much a suitor as a commander.