Phillip awoke the next forenoon with the sun shining warmly across his face, the church bells tolling and Tudor Maid anxiously awaiting breakfast. His first feeling was one of dissatisfaction at the nastiness of his mouth and the heaviness of his head. But before his eyes had blinked twice the memory of the preceding afternoon came to him. He smiled happily, turned over, laid his tousled brown head on one arm and stared unseeingly at the chimney of the next house. Twenty minutes passed. Maid arose, sniffed inquiringly at his hand, sighed, and flopped herself down again in the patch of sunlight. Phillip laughed aloud at some recollection and woke himself from his dreaming. Jumping blithely out of bed, he fed Maid from the store of biscuits kept in the closet for just such emergencies—a repast which the dog accepted under protest—took his bath and dressed himself, singing “Up the Street” martially and pausing suddenly in the middle of a bar to stand motionless and smile idiotically at his reflection in the mirror.

Phillip was in love. And he knew it. And he wouldn’t have been in any other condition for all the wealth of the world.

He was riotously happy; happy in spite of the fact that he had made a fool of himself the evening before, that his head felt as though it had been bored open and filled with lead, that his mouth, in spite of numerous draughts of water cold from the bathroom faucet, tasted as he imagined the inside of a brass pipe must taste, that he would have to go to a restaurant for breakfast, and that he didn’t want breakfast anyway.

He took Maid with him to a subterraneous lunch room in the square and fed her lamb chops and doughnuts, finding that his own appetite refused anything save coffee and toast. Afterward—it was too late for church—he walked up the avenue past Porter’s Station, struck off northward and got lost in darkest Somerville. Maid had a glorious time of it, and Phillip, when he at last reached The Inn for lunch, found that he had walked the lead out of his head and the bad taste from his mouth. When he had finished his lunch he went upstairs and found John and Laurence Baker.

“Are you going back to your room?” he asked the former. “I want to see you for a few minutes.”

“All right. Sit down. Have you had lunch?”

“Yes,” answered Phillip. “I’ll wait for you.” He sprawled himself out on the window-seat in the sunlight and tried to interest himself in the Sunday paper, aware all the while that Baker was eyeing him quizzically across the table.

“Have you seen my kid brother lately, Ryerson?” asked Baker presently.

“I was with him last night,” answered Phillip from behind the sheet. “We were in town.”

“Ah; indeed? Haven’t seen him this morning yet?”

“No.”

“Well, you ought to!” Baker pushed back his chair, grinning broadly. At the sideboard he took up the water pitcher and stared dolefully into its empty depths. “I say, John, has it ever occurred to you that Cambridge water is at times awfully dry? I’ll swear I’ve got away with six glasses and my throat’s still sizzling. Well, so long.”

When he had gone Phillip tossed aside the paper and faced John. The latter met his look calmly and poured himself another glass of milk.

“Well, Phil, we came out on top,” he said.

“Yes. I reckon you’re mightily pleased. And—and every one.”

“Pleased is no name for it; we’re in the seventh heaven of delight. It was beautifully decisive, you see; there were no freaks of luck; it was all straight football, with every score well earned. This is my last year here, and I’m glad we finished up with a victory. It sort of rounds out things, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes.” Phillip stared absently at his hands. Then he faced John again. “Look here, John, tell me about last night. Did I—was I very bad?”

“Fair to middling,” answered the other. “How did it happen, Phil?”

“Oh, I don’t quite know. Chester said we’d ought to go into town for dinner. You see, we had seats for the theatre, and—we went to some queer dives and ate a lot of nasty stuff and drank—quite a bit; some sort of white wine. No, we had cocktails first. We met Guy Bassett and Boerick and Frazer and some other fellows at the theatre, and we went out and drank some more stuff. I reckon it was champagne; I don’t remember. Then the others went off somewhere and Chester and I sat down—no, we didn’t sit down, because some fellows had our seats and wouldn’t get out. That’s what started it.”

“I see.”

“Yes. We told them we had the checks and they said we’d have to show them. I had mine, but Chester couldn’t find his. So he grabbed the nearest fellow—the seats were on the aisle—and pulled him onto the floor and yelled for me to slug the other chap. So I slugged him. By that time every one was standing up and telling us to ‘Go it, Bill,’ and then they began to crowd around us. I don’t know just what happened, but the other fellow and I were having it under the seats. There wasn’t room to do anything except hold on to each other, and so we did that and called each other names. I remember he said I was a ‘contumelious cub,’ only he was drunk and couldn’t say it plain, and that made me mad, and——”

“And Davy and I dragged you both out by your heels and got you away from the strong arm of the law,” finished John. “We had some trouble doing it. Chester insisted on fighting the whole crowd and that nearly queered us. We had just managed to make them understand that it was all fun, when it dawned on him that there were police present and that it was his bounden duty to do them up. But it ended all right. We got you and Chester into a hack and brought you home. What became of Kingsford and that tall, black-haired youngster I don’t know. But I guess they got off all right.”

“Kingsford?” asked Phillip, drawing his brows together. “Was he there?”

“Was he there! Do you mean that you didn’t know it was Kingsford you were mauling under the seats?”

Phillip groaned.

“Honest, John?”

“Honest Injun.”

“I must have been pretty bad. I didn’t recognize him at all. Why, he’s—he’s a chum!” John smiled.

“Chum, eh? And you were just showing him how much you loved him, I suppose? Well, it’s all past now, Phil. I’m not sure, though, that it isn’t my duty as your—hem—guardian, Phil, to read you a short lecture.”

“Go ahead. I wish you would. I wish you’d kick me! I—oh, hang it, John, I’m an awful dunce!”

“Well, let’s get outdoors. Now, I’m not altogether the right kind to lecture any one on the subject of getting drunk, Phil. Unless, as I’ve seen it stated, experience is necessary to the making of a good preacher. In my own coltish days I made a bit of an ass of myself. As a freshman I thought it was incumbent on me to drink a good deal, and I have unpleasant recollections of three occasions when—well, when I made as big a fool of myself as it is allowed any man. So you see, Phil, if you emulate my example you’ve got two more coming to you. Only—well, I think I’d pattern myself on some one else and let the other two go by forfeit.”

They had reached Little’s and John led the way to his room, explaining that David had returned to New York with his father. He pushed a window wide open and thrust a chair up to it, taking the window-seat himself, clasping his big, brown hands over his knees. Phillip, looking at the clear-cut features and kindly, honest eyes, tried to associate them with scenes of drunken orgies, and failed.

“I don’t believe you were ever nasty-drunk, John!” he declared warmly and with conviction. John turned, smiling, and read some of the admiration in the other’s eyes.

“Nonsense,” he said. “I’ve been just as much of a brute as other chaps. Don’t try to make a hero of me, Phil; I’m poor stuff.”

“I don’t believe it,” answered Phillip, doggedly.

“Don’t? Well—I’m glad you don’t, old man. I like people to like me and I want you to if you can.”

Phillip smiled at a recollection. “I reckon you like people that you like to like you?” he asked.

“That’s it,” answered John, reflecting the smile. “And that means I like you, Phillip of Virginia.”

“Oh! I didn’t mean that!” protested Phillip. “I—I was just quoting somebody.”

“All right; you needn’t apologize. Now, about last night. As I was saying, you can get drunk pretty often, if you want to, without being any worse than some other fellows in college who are well liked and respected. But it won’t do you a speck of good, Phil, not a speck. And life is such a short track at the most that I don’t believe a fellow has time to do negative things. The mere fact that a thing’s not going to harm you doesn’t make it worth doing; stick to the things that will produce some good, that will better you if only a little. After all, it isn’t especially necessary to get drunk. I don’t believe that a fellow who drinks more than is good for him is any manlier than the fellow who doesn’t. Besides, it’s an expensive habit, drinking.”

“It is,” agreed Phillip dolefully.

“Well?”

“Oh, I’ve quit, John; honestly! Last night was enough. I hate to see other fellows make beasts of themselves and I hate to think that I’ve gone and done it myself. I don’t mean that I’m going to become a total abstainer, for I don’t think that’s necessary, do you? We have always had wine on the table at home and—and I’ve never thought much about it. Down our way we ride hard and drink the same way. But I think you’re right about it, John, and—and I’m going to take mighty good care that it doesn’t happen again.”

“All right, Phil. By the way, have you heard from your folks lately?”

“Yes, I had a letter Friday.”

“All well, I hope?”

“Yes; except mamma. You know she’s right poorly all the time.”

“I beg your pardon; I’d forgotten.”

“Margey wrote that they were both counting the days until Christmas. I’m beginning to look forward to going home, too.”

“Yes. I wish my folks were going to be at home for Christmas. A fellow feels rather out of it if he can’t spend Christmas by his own fireside. As it is, I suppose I’ll go home with Davy for a few days.”

“I wish you’d come with me,” cried Phillip, eagerly.

“Thanks; that’s awfully nice of you. But I don’t believe a chap’s folks care very much about having strangers around at Christmas.”

“Why, mamma and Margey would be awfully pleased,” declared Phillip. “I wish you would come. Of course, we’re not so swell as David, I reckon, but I could show you a good time. We could get up a fox hunt, and maybe there’d be some partridges left. Will you?”

“Hm; you tempt me sorely, my child. But—— Well, we’ll think it over.”

“I’m sure there’ll be some birds,” continued Phillip, “for Margey wrote that Nate Willis was staying there for a few days and that he’d had good shooting.”

“Who’s Nate Willis, may I ask?”

“Nate? Well, he’s one of the Richmond Willises, you know.”

“Indeed? And am I to presume from that that he’s a person of family and prominence?”

“Yes, I reckon so. We’re related in some way; mamma knows.”

“And is—er—is he a frequent caller at your place?”

“Oh, he comes up right often.”

“I see.” John drew his feet off the cushion and sat up. “On second thoughts, Phil, I’m not sure that I won’t accept your invitation now. At any rate, you might sound your folks and see what they think of entertaining a stranger for a couple of days.”

“But you’re not exactly a stranger, you know,” said Phillip.

“Thank you, old man. What do you say to a short walk?”

So they strolled through the Yard, across the Delta and down Divinity Avenue under arching boughs, bare save for an occasional yellow leaf twirling lazily about in the afternoon breeze. They crossed Norton’s Field, rustling through the little patch of woodland, and turned back by Irving Street, pausing to admire the park-like expanse whereon are grouped four highly satisfactory examples of public building architecture. John pointed out the high school and the Latin school, and the public library on one side and the manual training school on the other, and Phillip looked them over for a minute and then said:

“Now I understand why you folks here in New England are so intellectual and cultured and all that. Shucks! You can’t help being smart and knowing a heap with all your fine schools and libraries and things. Considering the advantages you have, I’m not sure you’re not all powerful ignorant. Why, a fellow couldn’t help learning how to carpenter in a place like that!” He nodded toward the hospitable red brick building beside them. “Come on; I’m disgusted with you. You’re a stupid lot up here. As my nigger mammy used to say, ‘You ain’t got as much sense as a toad-frog; an’ ev’ybody knows that a toad-frog’s th’ ignerantes’ thing as is!’”

At the Colonial Club John piloted Phillip upstairs to the big, comfortable and unpretentious reading-room where, over a pot of tea and through the gray smoke of a couple of very black cigars, they discussed subjects as multifarious and inconsequent as those suggested by the walrus.

Phillip did not encounter Everett Kingsford until Monday night, at the dinner table. Phillip looked sheepish, and Everett, rising ceremoniously, saluted him gravely.

“Sir, I will apologize if you will,” he said.

“I didn’t recognize you at all,” declared Phillip earnestly. “I didn’t know it was you until North told me yesterday. I’m awfully sorry, honestly.”

“Say no more. But let this be a warning to you never to raise your hand to your elders again.”

“You—you weren’t hurt, were you?” asked Phillip anxiously. The thought of having engaged in combat with Betty’s brother was harrowing and savoured of sacrilege.

“Not a bit. How about you?”

“Nor I.” Presently he asked: “Your mother is well, I hope?”

“Quite.” And Kingsford grinned exasperatingly. “And so is Miss Wayland, I believe; and Muir. And so am I.”

Phillip applied himself diligently to his soup and strove to look unconcerned.

“Isn’t soup a beautiful thing?” asked Kingsford.

Phillip smiled in spite of himself.

“You’re mighty cute, aren’t you?” he asked scathingly.

“So-so; at least, I know the symptoms.”

“What symptoms?”

“Tut, tut, my boy; don’t blush!”

“Oh, go to thunder. How’s Miss Kingsford?”

“Brave and honest youth! I have the pleasure of informing you that my sister’s health is much the same as when you last saw her some forty-eight hours ago.”

“Oh!”

“I’ll tell her you said so,” murmured Kingsford politely.

“Well, now, look here. I was asked to dinner at your place. And I accepted. I wish you’d hurry things along. I’m awfully hungry.”

“Hm; well, I’ll see what can be done. But meanwhile, why don’t you go in and call on Betty and get the edge off your appetite?”

“I’m going to.”

“The deuce you are! And I’ve been thinking of you as a shy and retiring youth! Why, Betty told me that she couldn’t get a word out of you all during the game.”

“She didn’t!”

“Didn’t she?” Kingsford grinned again. “Well, maybe she didn’t, then. I guess I won’t tell you what she said.”

“Go on, like a good fellow! What was it?”

“It was in confidence, my boy. Do you think for a moment that I am one to betray a sister’s confidence? Heaven forfend!”

“Please!”

“What’ll you give me?”

“I refuse to bribe you. I’ll ask her.”

“I would. She’s sure to tell you. Listen, then. She said you were a nice boy but frightfully cheeky.”

Phillip moulded a slice of graham bread into a round wad and let drive. Kingsford dodged and it took one of the fellows at the far end of the table on the cheek. In the fracas which inevitably followed Kingsford made his escape.

Phillip made his call on Wednesday afternoon, taking good care not to appraise Kingsford of his intention, since the latter had solicitously offered to accompany him and by his presence remove some of the embarrassment. The Kingsford residence on Marlborough Street was very broad of front, very high of steps and very aristocratic of aspect, despite the fact that its stone and brick were faded and discoloured by age. An oriel window, quite palpably an addition of recent years, hung out over the doorway and was filled with ferns and carnations in profuse bloom.

Phillip was ushered into a surprisingly modern drawing-room and was presently joined by Mrs. Kingsford. During the next five minutes Phillip watched the hall door anxiously until his hostess, divining his thoughts, remarked:

“I’m very sorry that Elizabeth is not at home this afternoon. She is taking her painting lesson. She studies with Warrenton, the flower painter, and really does excellently, we think. Besides, she enjoys it greatly and it gives her something to interest her. I tell her I’m certain she must inherit her talent from me, Mr. Ryerson, for I used to do the most beautiful pink and yellow roses on plush plaques when I was her age! I used to think them very lovely.”

“I’m sure they were,” said Phillip earnestly.

After the first moment of blank dismay and disappointment, Phillip, to his credit be it said, set out to make himself agreeable to Betty’s mother and succeeded admirably. He had the true Southern reverence and courtesy toward women which, combined in his case with a youthful shyness, Mrs. Kingsford found grateful and even flattering. When he arose to go and took the hand she offered him he bent over it, as he had seen his father bend over his mother’s hand all his life, almost as though he was going to touch his lips to it. Mrs. Kingsford smiled.

“Nice boy,” she said to herself; and aloud: “You mustn’t forget that you’re to come in to dinner some night soon. Everett will know better than I what evening will be convenient to you, and so I shall leave it to him. But don’t let him put it off too long. I want you to meet Mr. Kingsford; he likes young men; I believe he almost thinks he’s one himself. And if it’s not greatly out of your way, Mr. Ryerson, you might walk toward the Public Garden. It’s just possible that you’ll meet Elizabeth coming home. It’s about time, I think, and I know she’d be sorry to have missed you altogether.”

Phillip threw her a glance eloquent of gratitude.

“I will then,” he replied. “She couldn’t be nearly as sorry as I.”

Fortune favours the persevering. At the end of Phillip’s third trip between the house and the equestrian statue of Washington—for Mrs. Kingsford had not limited him to one excursion—he spied Betty, a captivating figure in walking skirt and Norfolk jacket, swinging toward him across the bridge. Phillip hurried toward her on the principle that the farther from home he met her the longer he would have to walk beside her. She greeted him quite without embarrassment and gave him a small hand encased in a gray glove of undressed kid that was so soft and snuggly feeling that it was an effort to release it. Her cheeks were glowing, and the light brown hair, escaping from under a jaunty felt hat, was frisking about just as he remembered it.

“I’ve been to call,” he announced.

“Have you? I’m sorry I was out. You saw my mother?”

“Yes.” Then in a burst of admiration: “She’s mighty good and kind, isn’t she?” Betty looked surprised.

“Why, of course she is. But——”

“You see, she told me that I might find you if I came this way.”

“Oh,” said Betty, “did she?” They were walking toward the house. Phillip was dawdling disgracefully.

“Yes; and so I came this way—three times.” He looked to see how she would accept this proof of devotion and was rewarded with the sight of a little demure smile.

“You—you were very kind to waste your time on me,” she replied gravely.

“Betty!”

Phillip was certain afterward, when he thought it over, that he didn’t say it—that it just escaped in the manner and with all the unexpectedness of a Jack-in-the-box when the latch is loosed. Betty shot a sudden glance at him and then looked across the street. Phillip took a long breath.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he said earnestly. “I didn’t mean—— It came out, you know!” Betty laughed a trifle nervously, her face still averted.

“Yes, it did ‘come out,’ didn’t it?” she asked. Then, severely, coldly: “Is it the custom in Virginia, Mr. Ryerson, to address girls by their—their first names the second time you meet them?”

“No,” answered Phillip, miserably. “And I’m very sorry. Won’t you—can’t you forgive me?”

“Perhaps; if—” Betty turned and observed him frowningly—“if it doesn’t happen again.”

“Ever?”

“Why,” faltered Betty, “why—of course. Aren’t we silly? Won’t you come in?”

They had reached the house and Betty placed one small foot in its patent leather Oxford on the lowest step. Phillip glanced from the Oxford to the oriel window doubtfully.

“Wouldn’t your mother think I was—cheeky?” he asked.

“She’d think you were cheekier if you kept me on the steps,” answered Betty.

“Well, then let’s walk,” he suggested boldly.

“I think I ought to go in,” answered Betty. And so she took the Oxford from the lowest step and moved off up the sidewalk with him.

“Do you think I’m awfully cheeky?” asked Phillip.

“I? Why?”

“Your brother said you did.”

“Oh, please don’t pay any attention to what Everett says about me. He’s liable to tell you anything. What—what did he say?”

“Oh, I reckon he was just fooling. He said—he said you said——”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Betty. “More Emerson!”

“That I was a nice boy, but frightfully cheeky.”

“The idea! I never said anything of the kind. What I did say——”

“Please tell me, won’t you?”

“No, I shan’t. It wasn’t anything, really. But you mustn’t pay any attention to Everett. He’s——”

“A nice boy, but untruthful?”

“Yes,” laughed Betty. “We must go back now.”

“Must we? And won’t you tell me what you said?”

“Certainly not,” she answered, severely.

“Never?” pleaded Phillip.

Betty relented.

“Perhaps some day.”

“Next time I see you?”

“Hardly. Good-by.” She held out her hand and Phillip seized it as though it were the only thing between him and death by drowning.

“Well, but—I may come again?”

“If you like.”

“When?”

“Some afternoon when I’m at home?” asked Betty innocently.

“Of course! Only—only when are you at home?”

Betty creased her forehead charmingly and thought deeply.

“I’m pow’ful unsartin’, I’m afraid. But—I’m usually at home on Thursday.”

“Thursday!” cried Phillip. “But to-morrow’s Thursday, and the next one’s a week off! More than a week!”

“Why, so it is!” she laughed. “What shall we do about it?”

“Oh, of course you don’t care,” he grumbled.

“I do if you do,” she said contritely. “We’ll alter the calendar.”

“How?” he asked eagerly.

“Why, we’ll have a week from to-morrow come on—let me see!—on Monday. Will that do?”

“Really? And will you be at home?”

Betty nodded. Phillip held forth his hand again.

“But we’ve said good-by once,” she demurred.

“Let’s say it again.”

He watched her until the door had closed and then swung gaily toward Cambridge. He would walk back, he told himself, because the car had yet to be made that was large enough to hold him.