What was it in herself, Mary wondered, that held her aloof, prevented her from actually engaging her affections? She was certain that she was not a mental prig. Was there the possibility of being a physical prig? She enjoyed going to the theatre with young men; she liked to dance with them, to talk with them, and yet an indefinable something in her makeup interfered with the progress of a more intimate relationship. She was acquainted with many empty-headed boys, sheiks, they called them in Harlem, boys about whom most of the girls were mad, boys whom married women quarrelled over, silly, conceited boys who thought of nothing but their conquests and probably spoke freely about them among themselves. These, assuredly, were not for her. The more seriousminded young men in her circle of friends were naturally quite a different matter. Howard, for instance, was her kind, but she realized that she could never consider marrying Howard. Anyway Howard belonged to Ollie, and the others like him had never actually proposed to her. It was something in herself that didn't want them to propose to her that kept them from it, she was beginning to believe.
