her. He seized her wrists and pulled her to her feet. "You've got to dance with me, lady."
Just that. No "You look lonesome," no "why all by yourself"—none of the tactless remarks that another young man, with the best intentions in the world but without Jock's sensitive understanding, might have made. Instead, "You've got to dance with me"—as though he wanted her to tremendously, as though he could not wait.
And the brief glance he had of her face before it tucked itself out of sight against his shoulder told him unmistakably that he had made a friend, for life.
Jock contrived to be seldom alone with Molly during the next two days. He rushed her determinedly from one festivity to the next, and somehow they found no opportunity for the sweet secluded moments that are as important as the prom itself to most prom couples. The shadowy billiard-room, the little corner back of the staircase—all the places known in the fraternity (and with reason) as "necking nooks"—saw them not. No one entered a room and backed out hastily, murmuring apologies, on their account. No one had opportunity to hoot at Molly because her hair was mussed. . . .
"I don't believe you love me any more, Jock."
"What makes you think that?"
"You've only kissed me once since I've been here, and that was just a tiny peck—sort of a sense-of-duty peck"
"Well, when has there been time, for heaven's sake?
