"Are you going over to the street to-night?" he asked of David, but not
caring half a cent what David did.
"I am afraid I can't. I am not very good on my feet any more. I am
sorry, the girls would enjoy it."
"Carol and I might go alone," suggested Connie bravely. "Every one
does out here. We wouldn't mind it."
"I will not go to a street carnival and leave David," protested Carol.
"It would be rather interesting." Connie looked tentatively from the
window.
Prince swallowed in anguish. She ought to go, he told them; she really
needs to go. The evenings are so much fuller of literary material than
day-times. And the dancing--
"I do not dance," said Connie. "My father is a minister."
"You do not dance! Why, that's funny. I don't either. That is, not
exactly,-- Oh, once in a while just to fill in." Then the latter part
of her remark reached his inner consciousness. "A minister. By
George!"
"My husband is one, too," said Carol.
Prince looked helplessly about him. Then he said faintly, "I--I am
not. But my father wanted me to be a preacher. He sent me to
Princeton, and I stuck it out nearly ten weeks. That is why they call
me Prince, short for Princeton. I am the only real college man on the
range, they say.
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