Pretty maids all in a row

21

Ponce, pedaling through the streets of Sawyersville, was as spruced up as a bridegroom—almost. He had shaved, electrically, he had combed and brushed his rather short brown hair, carefully. He had examined his face for a long time, in that mirror. He wasn’t handsome, he knew, but he wasn’t ugly either, that too he definitely knew. He found his face very interesting, in fact. It looked different from each side, and, on the whole, he preferred the view from the left side. It had always struck him as a very interesting fact, how faces looked different from each side, and each angle, too. Head on, for example, he looked real good. He had made a note to look at her squarely, as much as he could. He had chosen his clothes with care. He looked very good. And he had told his parents that he was off to see Tiger. He hated doing that, but he felt he had to. He knew it was his only chance of being allowed out—tonight, of all nights. Incredulous, but ever patient and full of adoring parental faith in their Ponce, they had let him go. It hadn’t been all that easy, of course. He had to argue awhile, and insist, in his quiet way, for quite a while. In the end, he had won out.

He chose the most direct route to Miss Smith’s apartment house, but he was going to be a little late in any event, due to the prolonged negotiations and preparations. Rusty Joe, his little readheaded brother of course, had stared at him with big questioning eyes, aware as he was that some momentous event had transpired in Sawyersville that day, but not quite one hundred percent in tune with the exact nature and/or significance of it, just yet. .Peppy had hung around him, and tagged after him, meowing, tripping him up. for he had forgotten to feed her, of all things, and so had his mother, extraordinarily. Peppy gave not one damn about the event, or any event, she wanted to be fed, and on time, come what may. And he had done so, finally, apologizing profusely to her. She had only purred, and devoured her meal, selfish beast, as usual.

Ponce had a copy of his Eng Lit book and a notebook on him. He was going over in his mind certain aspects of the work in question which would possibly be of use as the subject of the proposed theme. At any rate, he was trying very hard to go over these aspects, for to tell the truth they all led to one aspect, and that was Miss Smith. His mind and body were dominated by a certain general bewilderment and an associated spectrum of feelings ranging from sheer, brute lust to dark, stark terror. This was one of the reasons he had in fact chosen his bike as the mode of transportation to the house of his dream. It would give him time to think and work off some of the more potentially dangerous, wild, uncontrollable impulses surging all through him, like a house on fire. Even though it would get him there somewhat late. He could have gone on his cute little motor scooter, or, if he had talked long enough, and hard enough, his mother’s car, of course. But he had chosen his bike. And he was glad of it. It was a brisk November night. It wasn’t cold though. Just perfect for cycling. . . .

What would her place be like? He wondered. His heart pounded and shuddered at the mere thought of it, actually stepping inside it, actually confronting the supreme being, that divine dream, that honey. He had only seen the apartment house on Elmwood Avenue once or twice before, from the outside, whizzing past on his scooter. It was a fairly large brick apartment house, and to tell the truth he didn’t know anyone who lived in it—except the goddess. Would they talk in the parlor? Talk, Ponce wondered, how would he be able to talk, he wondered and wondered. He assumed a parlor, for he had in his fantasy a vivid picture of what the place would be like, or should be, at any rate: it included a warm, cozy parlor, suitable for small, intimate parties, and similar get-togethers, or gatherings, for two, for example, preferably. Would she sit beside him on a sofa? Or would she have a couple of easy chairs or other chairs and each would occupy one? Where would they be? He wondered. Would there be a table? A card table? Would he lay his book on the table? And notebook? Where would he lay that notebook? It needed some space, opened up, that is, especially. Would there be room for the notebook? On a card table? Ponce pondered the matter, and other matters, which now were leaping up in his mind like lightning flashes as he pedaled on through the cool night air. He sensed, in a sense, even as he was answering them, or trying to answer them, that they were irrelevancies— such was the nature of one part of this young lad’s extraordinary makeup. He sensed that. He knew that the real question, the only question, was and could only be: What would happen? In a way, he realized, he stood at a crossroads in his existence: How would he handle it? Or, Would he handle it? Ponce wondered, worried, for the possibilities were trying. Would he be handled? That was worrying. Ponce pedaled. Above all he hoped that when he got there he wouldn’t walk in through an open door and find another one, like this morning. That was a worry. He drove it off though, it was one he couldn’t bear keeping more. At any rate, he tried very hard to. . . .

He was getting near the place. All he had to do was take a right at the next comer, Tenth Street, go down about one hundred yards or more, the length of a football field of course, turn left at Elmwood, and—

Ponce faltered, he almost fell off his bike. How would he ever do it? What about when he got to the door? Would he just raise his hand, hold it out, knuckles toward the door, and let the quivering of his body take care of the rest? What kind of a rap would that be? A rat-a-tat. He hoped she had a doorbell. Maybe he could guide his finger to it and actually in one wild burst get the strength and courage to press it. He slowed his bike down to a crawl. His body hammered. He began to plunge, within himself, a gross despair overtaking him. He would never make it. No

He thought of Tiger. Suddenly, that internalized bedrock stirred in him, and sustained him, pumping courage, life, and hope—through him. As he had seen him do so many times with the football team, during halftime, when they had been taking a beating. He saw him, before him. He was there, counting on him. Could he let him down?

How could he? Who ever did? Who would dream of it? It was true, it was a fact, it was interesting, Ponce suddenly mused, how many games Sawyersville actually won in the second half. No matter what had happened in that first half. He saw him. At football practice. At the games. In the classroom. In the auditorium. In the Guidance/Counseling Office. ... He saw him everywhere. Effective. Formidable. Calm. Human. ... He saw Peppy. He saw his mother. Rusty Joe. His father. ... He broke his plunge, he headed upward. He felt himself heading upward. The bike moved faster. He turned the corner. He pedaled. . . . Another corner. ... If nothing else, he had hit Elmwood.

. . . He pedaled into it. . . .

“Hello! Come on in!”

The voice, in the doorway, obviously belonging to the warm, sweet-scented, gorgeous body, also there, came to him.

Ponce fought hard, like a tiger. He fought to control his violent trembling.

“H-H-Hello—Miss—Smith—” he managed.

She was wearing a pale-green dress, Ponce somehow noticed, not the same skirt and sweater she had on in the school today, Ponce, observant as ever, noticed. The dress clung to her with a warmth and fondness which only a dress on her could conjure, it outlined her form, heavenly. Ponce, inside, was hammering. He saw the way it dipped toward her astonishing treasures. He thought he caught a glimpse of the soft, round, white tops of them, just peeking out of the dress, when she moved. He hammered more, hanging on to a slim thread of consciousness, no more.

She let him in, or rather, he almost fell in.

“Well, I'm glad to see you, Ponce,” she hummed, in that divine voice, “We can have a nice talk, can’t we, about the whole matter—” The voice flowed through him.

“Right—Miss Smith—” he got out, astonishing himself.

He saw a room that wasn’t all that far removed from his fantasy though it was somewhat larger. It was softly lit, there was a sofa, two easy chairs, and a table and chairs around it. Also, at the end of the room a desk. A pretty little desk. Where she corrected exams, and themes, and papers, Ponce thought, warmly. He made “A” on most of them.

“Yes—MLss Smith—” his voice answered.

He sat down on the sofa about two and a half feet from her, a wild man, throbbing inside, and terrified.

Silence.

Miss Smith was moving around on the sofa, making herself comfortable. Casually comfortable. Ponce, though not looking, knew it. She seemed to be reaching for something, though Ponce still did not have the courage to look. The next thing he heard was the flick of a lighter. Then he saw and smelled cigarette smoke. It floated, billowed, enveloped him, he was part of that floating now. Now—

“You don’t smoke, Ponce, do you?” The dream of a voice, he was aware, was asking him.

“N-No—Miss Smith,” the lad answered.

“Well, I hope you don’t mind if I do,” she told him.

She could have fired twenty shots at him, he wouldn’t have minded, of course.

“No—Miss—Smith—” the boy answered, “I mean—I-I don’t mind at all, Miss—Smith—” He paused now, “That’s what I mean—” He added.

“It really is an awful habit, in many ways, but I just love it,” He heard her say, as she took a long, long drag, out of his way.

“Comfortable?” She asked, sending out another billowing cloud of heaven-scent.

“Yes, Miss Smith—” Ponce politely told her.

“Now you just relax, will you—” She said to the lad, “You’ve been through a terrible day—I know—You poor kid,” She said, “I’m glad you came tonight.”

Ponce got out, “So am I—”

She pulled on the cigarette, as Ponce continued staring straight ahead, at eternity. There was also a wall. And a painting on it. He saw the painting. It was a reproduction, a fine print, really, of a Degas. A group of young ballerinas on the stage, rehearsing. It was beautiful, especially in the soft light. He kept on staring at it.

“Like it?” He heard, from somewhere.

“The painting?” He asked.

“That’s right.”

“A lot.”

“It’s just perfect.”

“Genius shines through—”

“Right”

“The painting envelopes one—doesn’t it, Ponce?”

“It does.”

“That’s the secret of any great work of art, Ponce—did you know that?”

“I had—an idea about that—”

“I’m sure you did. Yes. That’s why most modem art is so awful. Oh God it’s awful! It just makes attacks on the viewer. I hate modern art! Do you know what, Ponce? Ninety-nine percent of it at least is rubbish. Pure Rubbishi.” She said.

“Is that right? Miss Smith—?” The lad asked.

“I’m afraid it is.”

“I—didn’t know that.”

“Please take my word for it.”

“I don’t know—much—about modern art Haven’t really seen—much of it—it—Miss Smith—”

“Please take my word for it.”

“I will, Miss—Smith—”

He didn’t dare look, but he felt she was smiling now.

“You know I went to Italy last summer, don’t you, Ponce?”

“Yes—Miss Smith—”

Could she speak Italian? He wondered—

“What a marvelous, marvelous place Florence is! Oh, Ponce, I had a most breathtaking week there. I’ve never known such pleasure. Such joy. Such delight! There just isn’t a city like that anywhere. It’s perfect, Ponce. Why those sculptures by Michelangelo in the Medici tombs alone are worth the journey! And that’s just the beginning of it! Ponce, the priceless treasures in the galleries, the Uffizi, the Pitti—I wish I could have borrowed one or two of the masterpieces—for example, the Madonna and Child, by Filippo Lippi—or his portrait of a fellow monk —that one’s fabulous! Oh, Ponce, what have you got me started on? Once I start, I just never stop—on this subject —did you know that?”

“I—didn’t know—that,” said the lad.

Silence. Again.

He heard her move around again, probably making herself even more comfortable. He heard her fingers tap the cigarette, over an ashtray, probably.

“So I’d better stop,” she said, “After all, you didn’t come here tonight to hear a lecture on Art!”

She laughed, softly. Ponce throbbed away, constantly.

Silence.

Miss Smith was definitely reaching over the ashtray again, this time to stab out the cigarette, Ponce knew. Also, he had found the courage to peek—out of the farthest comer of his eye—and of course what he saw made him throb all the more, filling him in addition with a wild impulse to tear out of the room, through the walls, if necessary—somewhat—much as— He drove it away. Would it plague him the rest of his life, that memory? As soon as she sat back, or started to sit back, Ponce’s gaze once again jumped straight ahead.

“Well,” said the dream, “What about Milton?” She said.

“He was a great poet,” he said.

“That he was,” Miss Smith agreed.

“His—early poems show—a characteristic mingling of Renaissance and Puritan influence,” the lad said.

“Look at me,” said Miss Smith.

Somehow, after a mighty struggle, and very slowly, the lad turned to face the dream.

“Don’t be shy with me,” she said, and who else in the world had a voice like that? "Just picture yourself in class, will you, Ponce—? It’s the same—” She smiled at him, while he hammered away, somewhere, not there. She lifted her hand to her hair a moment, “You don’t think I’m going to eat you. do you?” She said.

“N-N-No, Miss Smith—” The lad bravely lied.

“Alright then—” She said.

Ponce tried hard to imagine he was in class. But it didn’t really help all that much of course, for the closer he got to realizing that fantasy, the more pronounced became the phenomenon associated with the actual reality of being there, i.e., in his dream’s class. And no matter how hard he tried to control it. He was mortified.

“Are you alright, Ponce?” the divine creature asked.

“S-Sure—Miss Smith—” Ponce said, lying again.

She snuggled around on the sofa, before him, making herself very comfortable. She pulled out another cigarette. She lit it. waiting to hear more from her top student. “Go on then,” She said, very softly.

Ponce plunged on, getting in stride, in spite of everything, “In the early poems, for example, II Penseroso, Milton meditating in the cathedral expresses no aversion as a Puritan should for the beauty of the lofty arches, the stained-glass windows, and the music—”

“Yes,” Ponce said, “Milton’s love of organ music, so well described in the poem, continued throughout his life, and its tones and its dignified rhythms are reflected in the music—of his lines—Miss Smith.”

“Absolutely, Ponce,” Miss Smith purred at him, absolutely delighted with him, “And where does that take us?” Ponce’s organ, at this juncture, despite all efforts, was going somewhere. Definitely. He did his best to camouflage the mortifyingly and supremely embarrassing development, with his book and notebook, no less. He only prayed his teacher-hostess would not ask him to stand up—under any circumstances.

“Well—” he said, still in stride, “I just mentioned that because it seems like a good way to approach Paradise Lost—”

Miss Smith nodded her head, obviously more than delighted with Ponce, the best, without the slightest doubt, the most receptive, and perceptive, of all her Lit students, by far. She had certainly done the right thing asking him over tonight. It was always the case that one, just one student like this made all the sometimes dreary effort worthwhile. She pulled an extra long pull on her cigarette, her eyes shining.

“That’s a good idea, Ponce,” she said, exhaling a cloud of smoke, slowly, as she spoke, part of it touching Ponce, and thrilling him, no end.

“Take—” said Ponce, soaring on, “The masque Comus —and the elegy Lycidas—” The lad paused, “Here again, in both of these works, you can see the effects upon him of both Renaissance and Puritan—” He paused, for a breath, “Influences." He stopped.

“Thai’s right, Ponce,” said the dream, “Absolutely—and what an interesting, interesting approach to it—” She said, “Exciting almost—” She added, “And accurate—” She paused, “And when did you think of it?”

Her warm eyes surveyed the lad’s face. He only wanted to plunge, head first, into them, lose himself, forever, in them.

“Ever since—just since—” He faltered.

“This morning?” She offered.

Ponce shook his head, forlornly, at the mere thought of this morning, “No—*’ He told her. “Since—well—after you met me in the hall, to tell you the truth, Miss Smith— It all started then—and developed I guess quite a lot between then and now—no doubt—” He informed her.

“I inspired you!” She smiled.

“I guess so—” He murmured, also smiling, shyly.

“Would you like a cup of cocoa?” She inquired.

“That would be—great—” Ponce answered.

‘Til get it in just a minute,” Miss Smith said, “O.K.? Right now, what about telling me more, in general terms, about Paradise Lost—?”

The lad thought, and answered, quietly, finally, “Well— it’s an epic or heroic poem—and—Milton had more or less planned and prepared for it since his youth, to tell the truth. It was part of a trilogy, actually. Paradise Regained and Samson Agonistes are the other two parts—” He paused —“They explore the mystery of God's dealings with those who dwell on earth—in short, human beings—mainly— which was of great interest to the Puritan Age—” He paused again, casting his eyes on her, “They reveal the vastness of Milton's learning, the loftiness of his language, the stately music of his lines—” He paused once more, his eyes glued on her—“In short, his genius. Paradise Lost actually tells the story of the—temptation of Adam and Eve and their expulsion from Paradise—” He halted.

“Go on—” She murmured, encouragingly.

“Well, more than that, and on top of that, it describes the origin of the Devil, or Satan, and the War in Heaven, from which he was finally expelled and evolved into the Devil, taking his revenge on God by corrupting his finest, his most unique creation, Mankind, I mean.”

“Yes—” She said, obviously affected—She almost whispered.

“How is the imagery?” She asked.

“Vivid,” he answered.

“ \ . . eagerly the Fiend o’er bog or steep, through strait, rough, dense, or rare, with head, hands, wings, or feet pursues his way, and swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies too.* ” She quoted, partly closing her eyes, as Ponce admired the astonishingly beautiful eyelids and eyelashes, of his dream.

“That’s right,” she said, looking at him.

“And so—” the lad said, “And so—that’s what I have in mind to do, Miss Smith, that’s it—” He said.

She nodded, and smiled, at the boy, “And I think you can do it—I know your theme will be the best, the most original, in the class—” She paused, adding, “As usual.”

“I always try my best—” the lad said modestly.

“I’m glad you do.”

“Because I think—I think—You're just about the most terrific Lit teacher a guy could have—” Ponce heard himself say.

"Well thank you, Ponce! Well isn’t that nice. That’s awfully nice of you to say. It’s so nice, Ponce,” she responded, next.

“I think you are.”

Silence, next. They were looking at one another.

“And who is the hero of Paradise Lost?" Miss Smith, in that soft voice, unexpectedly asked.

“Man,” answered Ponce, without losing his pace.

“I’m really looking forward to this theme,” said the dream, pulling on her cigarette, as Ponce stared.

“How long—” he said, “Should it be?”

She shrugged, in an exquisitely gentle way, maddening him, “Don’t write a book,” She said, “Oh, say—five typewritten pages? Double spaced—”

“O.K.” Ponce said.

“Bv the end of next week—”

“O.K.”

“Now, some cocoa—” She said, stirring herself, rising from the sofa, Ponce’s eyes glued to her, evermore.

“Come in the kitchen,” she said, in the friendliest way, smiling also.

The moment Ponce dTeaded most had come, no doubt of it, and he sat there, going numb.

“Come on then,” Miss Smith repeated, standing, patiently waiting for him.

How could he get out of it? Ponce, turning all colors, on fire within, tried desperately to find a way. Oh for Aladdin’s Lamp! Should he pray?

“O.K. if I wait here?” He tried, feebly.

“Oh, come and watch,” she said, “It’s a lot of fun.”

He sat still.

“What’s the matter?” She said, genuinely concerned, “Frightened again?”

He made no move.

She moved, toward him. She stood just before him. She leaned over and touched his cheek with her fantastic hand. He felt the soft, warm treasure-hand.

“What’s the matter?” She inquired, so softly.

He made no answer. No word could possibly emerge from him. He sat and stared.

“What ever’s the matter?” She said, passing the glorious hand over his cheek, in short, caressing it, “Come on, come with me,” she murmured, taking his hand now, gently urging him up.

He felt himself going up, up, up. He was up. Before her. In all his shame—and glory. She didn’t seem to be offended. In fact, Ponce suddenly and alarmingly thought, Had She Noticed? How couldn’t she have noticed? Ponce was in despair, pondering, trembling hard there.

The goddess’s warm hands were still on him, she stood there, before him. He was just slightly taller than her.

“You’re shaking like a leaf, my goodness,” she said to him, “What’s the matter?” She asked again, in that softest, warmest, most enchanting voice—in the whole universe, ever-increasing his despair.

“I guess—” He said—“Must be—” He also said—“It—” He then said—“I think—” He said—And stopped dead.

He stood there.

She spoke gently and tenderly, “You’ve just been through too much today. Yes. I'm sure that’s it. I'm not feeling all that wonderful myself—” She said—“So, imagine you—” She still held his hand. “Maybe I shouldn’t have asked you to come tonight, Ponce—” She said—“That really wasn’t all that considerate of me, maybe—” She paused again—“Well, if you want to go—”

“I don’t want to—’’ He said, definitely.

She smiled, he was almost sure he felt an increase of pressure from her hand, “Alrighty—come and have some cocoa then," She sang.

He nodded, and she led the way. All the way to the kitchen, and in his condition, she held his hand.

“A shock like that’s going to take us all some time to get over.” the angel said, flipping a knob of her electric stove, “I’m not so sure I’d even be conscious tonight—if I had— found her,” She said.

Ponce, saying nothing, just fought hard to subdue his shame.

“Let’s just hope they soon find the fellow,” She told him.

Ponce, astutely, sat on a kitchen stool, silent, watching her.

“Oh—” She said, facing him, “I think it’s marvelous!”

Ponce nodded, feeling good about that. He knew she meant it. She poured the cocoa into cups. She popped marshmallows in each cup. He watched them, fascinated, as they floated. The cocoa smelled great. Like his mother's—

“There you are,” she said, handing him a cup.

“Thanks a lot,” the boy murmured, taking a sip, right away.

“Ummmm—” She said.

“Real good,” he told her.

“It’ll calm you down,” she said, taking over another stool, not far from him. She was made for it.

“You’re from New York, aren’t you, Miss Smith?” the lad ventured.

“That’s right,” she told him, “Syracuse, in fact.”

“Like it there?"

‘‘Oh. it was alright. I went to school there. Oh. but I’m very happy here. I love this town,” She enlightened him.

“I like it too,” Ponce tried, “I get bored sometimes though, no kidding. Miss Smith—” He paused, further trying, “A lot of the time—” He halted.

She smiled. He treasured that smile.

Pretty Maids All in a Row 115 “What do you hope to do with yourself, Ponce? Next year will be your last at Sawyersville—”

He sipped his cocoa, slowly. It was so delicious.

“Gee this is good—” He said, and continuing, “Oh, I’m not really too sure about that yet, Miss Smith—” He paused, and looked around. It sure was a cute kitchen. “I want to be a writer—** He said, quietly, “I guess you know that—”

“And I think you’d make a good one—” She said.

“But I have to find some way to make a living, don’t I, Miss Smith?” He said, intelligently.

“Why not teach?” She said.

“Well—I get real scared in front of people—no kidding, Miss Smith—I’m not so sure I can take it, in front of a class—all the time—” He confessed.

She understood.

“Well, we all get scared, Ponce, let me tell you—” She said,—“I can’t tell you how scared I was during my practice teaching! Golly! I get scared even now, sometimes,” She paused—“It’s something you get over—or learn to live with—at any rate—” She said, reassuringly.

Ponce nodded, and sipped more cocoa. The marshmallow bumped his lips. He took a nibble.

“What does your father do, Ponce?” She inquired, watching him.

“Oh—he works for the V.A.—” Ponce answered—“In Kitston—the big V.A. building there. You know?” He said —“Do you know him?”

“I met him at a P.T.A. meeting last year, to tell the truth. He seems awfully nice, Ponce,” She told him, “How do you get along?”

“Oh fine—We get along fine,” Ponce said.

There was silence. He finished the marshmallow.

“I like Mom best,” he confessed.

Miss Smith gave a little laugh, “And what boy doesn’t?” Ponce sipped the cocoa.

“Peppy?” She asked.

“My cat—boy, Miss Smith, what a cat—”

She laughed again.

“I ought to have one.”

“Well, I can get you one.”

116 Pretty Maids All in a Row “Oh, would you?”

“Sure, Miss Smith.”

And more silence.

“That would be nice.”

“Oh, they’re great.”

“I always had a cat—at home—growing up—” She said. “Aren’t they great?”

‘They really are great”

“I’ll get you one.”

A pause.

“I have a little brother, you know—” Ponce said.

“Isn’t his name Joe?”

“Well how did you know?”

“His teacher up at the elementary school is a friend of mine—” She smiled.

“Miss Tyler?”

“That’s so.”

“What do you know.”

“Aw, he is—The things he comes out with!”

“I'll bet—”

Ponce grinned, “I call him Rusty Joe—”

“How cute!”

Silence again.

Ponce sipped cocoa.

“What do you think about Vietnam?” Suddenly, he

asked.

His hostess didn’t seem to have at all expected that one. For a moment, she looked baffled, almost. Then she took a sip, and looked warmly at him.

“Well, why don’t you tell me what you think of it?” She said.

Ponce held the cup in his hands. He liked the warmth that came to him from it.

“Well—I don't know—I don’t think it’s too good of an idea though—” He said.

“How do you mean?”

“I don’t much see what the point of it is supposed to be —” He said, “Do you?”

“To tell you the truth—I don’t,” she answered, “No, I don’t.”

“And yet try telling that to just about anybody in this town!" He said.

“Well, actually, Ponce,” she said, “You’d be surprised how many teachers feel the same way. I mean, like we do. And I’ll bet a lot more people than you think—” She also said.

Ponce sat quietly.

“Just like integration?” He said.

Miss Smith was thoughtful. “Now that’s a very, very difficult problem,” she said.

Ponce nodded, “I know it is.”

“At least,” she said, “We’re making some attempt to solve the problem—in a decent way—” she paused, “Unlike other places, those horrible South Africans, for instance—” She paused—“Aren’t you proud of the worthy contribution Sawyersville’s made? I mean, it’s something, anyway—”

“I know it is.”

“Shall we go back to the front room?” She said.

“O.K.” Ponce said.

“I want to hear more about your theme—the ins and outs of it—I just don’t know how you came up with such a good idea—” She said, getting up now, “Bring your cocoa with you.”

Gazing at her, Ponce got up, somehow.

“O.K., Miss Smith.”

She smiled, taking his hand.

“Come on ” she said.