Anonumous - The prodigal virgin

“Life is very difficult, isn’t it, Stanley?” sighed the gray-eyed, pensive girl in the blue bathing suit.

The husky youth who sat Buddha-fashion by her side suppressed the smile which might have offended his sister-in-law in her present essay at a philosophical mood. “It’s no cinch,” he agreed gravely. “It’s nothing to rave about. The best thing is to follow the path of least resistance: to do what you want as nearly as possible and to let the codes and customs of the majority-composed entirely of asses-hamper one very little at most.”

“But surely,” she objected, turning for an instant a pink and pretty face, her forehead puckered with thought, upon him. “Surely that is cynicism-and one is not made happy by becoming cynical. Down through the generations mankind must have been making some progress in regulating itself wisely and so the rules which men have evolved should be followed as the nearest approach to wisdom in conduct which is available.”

In her earnestness-and the pleasure at finding herself in communion for the first time with a very likeable brother by marriage-who had heretofore shown her only a frivolous side-Marion Stone ceased to regard the blue waters so near at hand and turned upon an elbow to gaze at him. In the process of moving, she extended at full length a pair of unusually charming and quite naked legs. Dimples hovered distractingly just about the knees, vague suggestions of rose in skin which was otherwise of a tender, immaculate whiteness. Her thighs sloped gradually upward into soft fullness just below the tight blue trunks. The round calves sloped downward to the symmetry of her ankles which the man’s five fingers could easily have surrounded. Her slender bare feet were as white as milk, except for the ten polished pink gems of the nails.

Marion stirred uneasily as she noted what seemed the ardent attention of his gaze upon the nude limbs, which she was now for the first time showing him so fully. She laid a semi-shielding and equally well-molded arm along a thigh.

Since Stanley Cochrane noted a wee moue of apparent regret that he should seem to be paying attention to matters, other than her words, and since a slow flush arose in the face of the pretty Marion, his brown eyes became immediately profound, as if, though fixed upon her person, they were in reality just the windows of the pondering mind which she had aroused by her reflections.

“Er-I was thinking, Maro-“ he began.

“Maro,” she murmured pleased. “No one else calls me that. I think I rather like it.”

“A rich thing and mine own,” he observed modestly. “I feel that I must have my own copyrighted cognomens for those of whom I am especially fond.”

“Very dear and very flattering of you,” said the girl, jerking her pretty head in a pseudo-curtesy restricted by her posture.

“I think up dainty names for all the few I love.”

“Oh, love! On the third day of our acquaintance?” she smiled gently but with no coquetry whatever. “’Fond’ was nice, but ‘love’!”

“Do you discard the proffered and genuine affection of your brother?” he inquired sternly. “Are there no longer hearts in the young girls of America? In that case, woe be upon this frigid and unhappy land!”

“Of course we have hearts. I have a nice warm one-but it’s not on my sleeve, even when I wear a sleeve. I’m quite prepared to-yes, even love-my brother. I’ve always wanted a brother and I think you’ll do nicely. But, well, I guess it was the way you said ‘love’ that jarred me just the least bit.”

“Be that as it may,” he said hastily, with a swift look into the clear and candid gray eyes, “I suppose a fellow’s voice may slip as well as his foot. But, if I had known you were so sensitive to intonations, I’d have telegraphed what I wanted to say. The fact is, nevertheless, that-what was it I was going to say? Oh, yes-I had a sweet name for your sister, Mildred. I called her Mildew. But do you suppose she appreciated the poesy of it?”

“How mean! A darling, lovely girl like Mildred!” cried the younger sister. “And they told me when I got back from California-after you had swept her off her feet and married her-that you called her Glory, short for Glory of all the world! Men are nice things to have about!”

“Thank you. I was certain I could quickly convert you to that theory,” he smiled.

“I shall marry at the age of eighty-two,” Marion told the blue water of Lake Michigan.

“I advise seventy-five-when you will still be sweet and full of distilled ardor,” he suggested. “That will give you fifty-five years more in which to sow wild oats from here to Suez.”

His sister-in-law flushed sensitively and he knew it was because of his use of the word “ardor.”

“You have a very bad effect on a person,” she decided. “I was talking seriously trying to bring worthwhile ideas into our conversation and suddenly I find we are talking nonsense.”

“I love only serious thoughts myself,” he observed. “It is only when trying to humor some minx that I ever converse lightly, and I was about to advise you, when you became flippant, not to count upon any advance in mankind down through the ages save in material progress. He is much less worthy of, say, Plato and Aristotle. And the best thing to do is to thumb your nose at his rules and regulations, which are calculated to make life even more drab than it need be.”

“Heavens! That would lead us to chaos-to paganism-to anarchy!”

“And the best thought of the ages,” he went on eloquently, “boils down to the question of whether anyone ever informed you that your legs are without superiors and equals among the snowy and superb limbs which have launched ships and many more important things?”

“I knew it was a mistake,” mourned Marion distressedly, “to put on this indecent suit and come out here with you. Mildred laughed at the prim one I brought from Grandmother’s in California. This is one of hers-and I’m afraid I bulge here and there, more than she does. But I outweigh her by only eight pounds and she swore it was just right for me. When I protested she told me not to be silly but it’s you who are being silly!”

She was rosy now sitting upright with the admired and admirable legs clasped in her arms and with knees bent seeking what concealment was possible.

“See,” he remarked placidly. “You ruin the dimples when you bend your knees like that. You iron them out very wasteful. I fear they are gone for good. No, by George! There is one back again when I straighten out a leg once more. I believe that, if properly coaxed, I might go so far as to apply a kiss of welcome to that wandering dimple, which I thought gone forever. I am liberal that way.”

“Stanley Cochrane, don’t you dare, kiss my knee!” gasped the girl. “Of all things!”

He smiled up at her flushed face. His breath was warm upon her skin, mere inches away from the dimple which so enticed him. His fingers delighted in the velvet smoothness of the thigh and calf which he had grasped in straightening out, with gentle force, the naked leg nearest him. “What a fussy sister! One can’t even demonstrate one’s warm affection for her,” he said. “Don’t blame me, little dimple. I was about to welcome your return with affection but the iron-souled boss says no. I suggest, Maro, he went on, sitting up and removing his dismaying hands from the lovely limb, “I suggest that your dimples-and all other forbidden spots be courtplastered as a warning to tempted lips. That would include each cheek, both knees, probably your shoulders and loins, maybe your white little stomach, and perhaps even other places.”