She did finally.
"You're different from any girl I ever knew."
Most girls liked being told they were different. It seemed to distress Laurel.
"I try hard not to be."
"Don't try."
Laurel had never been talked to by any boy like this before. She was at a loss to know how to banter back.
"Are you already booked for the game in November?" asked Richard.
"The game?"
"The big game, I mean. It's in Cambridge this year."
"Oh, no, no, I'm not," Laurel's heart fluttered. He meant the big Harvard-Yale game! Oh, how happy her mother would be!
"I want you to go with me."
"Why, but I—do you think your mother—I mean—we—"
"I know," he interrupted, "that we've known each other only a week, and all the rest of that silly conventional stuff. But I'm not a perfect stranger to you. You can tell your mother that my kid brother knows Con Morrison. He visited him once. Con has been at our house. Anyhow, when your mother is able to come downstairs, she'll know us herself. It will be all right then. I simply had to get my word in now for fear you might get booked with somebody else. I want you to go to the game with me, if you go with anybody. Will you?"
"Yes, I will," said Laurel, looking off toward the shore, her eyes again suddenly dark and luminous.
