It started with Bev's entreaty that she drop her masquerade.

"You're a femme, baby," she said, "And you don't know how lucky you are. And when Ruth tried to speak, she went on.

"Oh, I know what you're going to say. But I just happened to be born with a figure like a stick. These clothes do something for me." And she had dug into her wallet and produced a battered photograph.

"Me, a couple of years ago," she said.

"This is you!" Ruth exclaimed. The girl on the picture wore a ruffled party dress that hung limply over her scant bosom and fell in graceless lines about her bony legs. The curled shoulder-length hair concealed all of the beauty of Bev's facial structure. She looked like a scarecrow.

"Do you think anybody noticed me then, except to laugh?" she asked, bitterly.

"Are you telling me," Ruth began, slowly, "that you went this way just because you weren't attractive?"

"You are the first person I ever told it to, Ruthie. But I'm worried about you. I feel guilty that I ever let you get in with our bunch."

"And you don't really go for girls at all? Is that what you mean?" Ruth asked, slightly numbed by Bev's revelation.

"I despise girls." Bev replied vehemently. "I despise myself."

"And me? Do you despise me, too?"

"No. I like you, Ruth. You're getting hurt, and I feel responsible.”

"You're crazy, Bev." Ruth said. "Why do you think I asked you to introduce me to the others?"

"I don't know why. I can't figure it. You're sweet, you're feminine . . . and you're far too good for any of them."

"Thanks," Ruth said, shortly. "But the fact is, I just haven't made the grade with any of them. Why, Bev? Why am I so different?" This was when she had nearly broken down and wept.

Bev finished her "coke" and lit a cigarette.

"I'm not sure, Ruth. But I think they are a little afraid of you. Most of them are phonies, like me, you know. Real satisfied with their silly crushes. And you go around with that intense look, like you need badly to really love somebody. It scares them, honey."

WISTING and turning in bed now, Ruth realized that she never actually was sure whether Bev was being truthful that day, or merely kind. She had been right, of course, about her wanting to really love someone. It had always been that way with her. She had a boundless well of love, drawn from some unknown source. Her parents were, in their way, devoted to her, but cold. She couldn't remember that they ever addressed her by a pet name, ever spontaneously embraced or kissed her. The aunt who called her "dear," the uncle who tousled her hair and held her on his lap . . . they were her objects of worship. Later, it was this teacher, or that schoolmate. Gender was unimportant. At least, it was unimportant until she learned. about sex. It was plain to her then that love was between male and female. Accordingly, she diverted, between her thirteenth and fifteenth years, her affections toward sundry boys in the neighborhood and at school. Kissing games were fun, and so was the mild "necking" on her front porch after dark. She wasn't sure now exactly when she rediscovered her susceptibility to her own sex. Perhaps it was the time, at a party, when she