Jack Willoughby -- Dr. John H. Willoughby , it reads on his office door -- was the son of our nearest neighbour . We were chums always , and when he went away to college I was heartbroken . The vacations were the only joy of my life then . I do n't know just when I began to notice a change in Jack , but when he came home two years ago , a full-fledged M.D. -- a great , tall , broad-shouldered fellow , with the sweetest moustache , and lovely thick black hair , just made for poking one 's fingers through -- I realized it to the full . Jack was grown up . The dear old days of bird-nesting and nutting and coasting and fishing and general delightful goings-on were over forever . I was sorry at first . I wanted `` Jack . '' `` Dr. Willoughby '' seemed too distinguished and far away . I suppose he found a change in me , too . I had put on long skirts and wore my hair up . I had also found out that I had a complexion , and that sunburn was not becoming . I honestly thought I looked pretty , but Jack surveyed me with decided disapprobation . `` What have you done to yourself ? You do n't look like the same girl . I 'd never know you in that rig-out , with all those flippery-trippery curls all over your head . Why do n't you comb your hair straight back , and let it hang in a braided tail , like you used to ? '' This did n't suit me at all . When I expect a compliment and get something quite different I always get snippy . So I said , with what I intended to be crushing dignity , `` that I supposed I was n't the same girl ; I had grown up , and if he did n't like my curls he need n't look at them .
For my part , I thought them infinitely preferable XXXXX that horrid , conceited-looking moustache he had grown . ''
So for if in like of over that through to