“What has become of that nice young Mr. Ryerson, Everett?” asked Mrs. Kingsford. “We haven’t seen him since—why, not since before Christmas, have we, Betty?”

“No, mother,” answered Betty calmly.

“Phillip Ryerson has taken the veil,” replied Everett gravely.

“Taken the veil!” echoed his mother. “What do you mean? Whose veil, Everett?”

“I mean he has withdrawn from the world of society and is hiding himself in the monastic seclusion of Thayer Hall. Really, I don’t quite know what’s up with Phil, but he’s frightfully down on his luck for some old reason, and I never see him more than once in a coon’s age. I think, though, that his folks have lost their money, or something like that has happened. He left our table right after the holidays and went to eating at Randall. And he gave up a couple of very jolly rooms he had on Mount Auburn Street and went to a horrible cheap dive down near the river. Since then, however, he’s gone in with a fellow named Baker who has a joint in Thayer. I’ve tried to get him to come here to dinner with me a couple of times, but he seems soured on polite society. I daresay Betty has thrown him over.”

“Who’s that you’re speaking of?” asked Mr. Kingsford, looking up from his Transcript. “That young Ryerson?”

“Yes, sir,” Everett replied.

“Well, if his people have lost their money I guess he thinks society is too expensive for him. I’m glad he’s got so much sense. I always thought he seemed level-headed. I wish you were as much so, sir.” Everett grinned.

“But,” continued Mr. Kingsford, glancing up and down the market columns, “it won’t do for him to think we are snobbish. And besides, I won’t have him breaking Betty’s heart. You tell him from me that I want him to come in to dinner next week.”

“You’re very nice, papa,” said Betty sweetly, “but my heart’s not nearly so fragile as you seem to think.”

“Glad to hear it; must be like your mother’s. She broke mine fifty times before she finally consented to marry me, and I don’t believe she ever sustained a fracture herself.”

“Poor old dad,” murmured Betty.

“Betty, you’re getting into a most annoying habit of referring to me as aged,” said Mr. Kingsford, scowling blackly. “I want you to understand, miss, that I am only six years older than your mother and she’s the youngest woman in Boston.”

Mrs. Kingsford smiled and blushed, as she always did at her husband’s compliments, and arose in response to the appearance at the library door of the maid with wraps.

“Come, Betty, the carriage is here,” she said. Everett accompanied them downstairs and saw them into the brougham. When he returned to the library he found his father had thrown aside the paper and was thoughtfully watching the smoke curl up from the tip of his cigar.

“Think that’s right about young Ryerson, do you, Everett?”

“About his folks losing money? Yes, sir; I gathered as much from what he has told me.”

“Sorry to hear it. He seems a fine sort of a boy. Do you like him?”

“Yes, sir, I like Phil,” answered Everett decisively.

“All right. Why is it you see so little of him then?”

“Well, we don’t meet very often, sir, and he seems rather stand-offish; doesn’t appear to want to chum.”

“Of course he doesn’t. He’s a Southerner. I’ve met a good many of them. They’re as proud as turkey cocks. If his people have lost their money, why, he has got it into his head, I daresay, that you don’t care to know him. Now don’t let him think that, Everett. If there’s anything on God’s green earth I hate it’s that sort of thing. Don’t be a money-snob, my boy.”

“I don’t think I am, sir. It hadn’t occurred to me that Phil could imagine anything of the sort.”

“I don’t say that you are, Everett; but don’t let it look that way. Now you look him up when you go back Monday and don’t let him put you off; give him to understand that it doesn’t make a continental bit of difference to you whether there’s been an auction at the old homestead or not. Get him in here to dinner with you. If he’s down on his luck, cheer him up. Take him into Parker’s some evening and put some cocktails where they’ll do the most good; you may charge it to me.”

“All right, sir. But I don’t believe he’d go to dinner, sir; he’s awfully shy on letting you do things for him.”

“Is, eh? A regular dyed-in-the-wool Southerner, I guess. Well, you do the best you can, Everett. There have been four generations of Kingsfords at Harvard so far, and they’ve all acted like gentlemen. You look sharp, sir, and see that the rule isn’t broken. I’ll forgive you anything and pay your bills like a little tin bank, just so long as you don’t forget what your last name is. If you ever do that, look out for squalls, my son!”

The result of this conversation, which took place the first week in February, was that Everett became a frequent visitor at the corner room in Thayer. Phillip begged off from Everett’s invitation to dinner, not because, now that he had discovered that he was still wanted, he did not wish to go, but because he had sold his very expensive dress suit for half what he had paid for it, and it did not occur to him to borrow one. He didn’t explain this to Everett, however, but pleaded study, an excuse which his friend accepted politely but did not believe in. Perhaps Everett suspected the true reason, for a few days later he asked Phillip to come to his rooms on a certain Thursday afternoon.

“My mother and Betty and Miss Wayland are coming out to tea,” he explained, “and going to vespers afterward. I’ll let you off on vespers if you insist, but I would like you to help me hand the sandwiches around. Porter is trying for the nine and has got to be in the cage that afternoon with the rest of the animals.” (Porter was Everett’s roommate.) “Say you’ll come, like a good chap.”

“I’ll be mighty glad to,” answered Phillip. “Only—you don’t reckon your—mother thinks I’m impolite for not accepting that invitation to dinner?”

“Not a bit. I explained that you were awfully busy grinding. She’s been holding you up to me ever since as a model of studiousness. If I don’t think to speak of it again, be there about three, will you?”

That Thursday was almost a week distant. The intervening days went slower than any Phillip had ever known. He had his best suit of clothes pressed and bought a new tie. The latter was broad and black, with half-moons of purple and green. Chester pretended great concern.

“Tell me the truth, Phil,” he begged. “You’re going to get married, aren’t you? You’re not? Then you’re asked to dinner with Prexy. I knew it was something momentous—out of the ordinary! Couldn’t you get me in somehow? My table manners, really, aren’t half bad, if we don’t have soup. I always spill my soup. Anyhow, I could say I didn’t care for soup; lots of folks don’t, you know. Of course, I haven’t any tie that comes anywhere near touching that one; but I’ve got a Punjaub thing, all red and yellow and green, that’s very, very effective by gaslight. You will take me, won’t you, Phil?”

Meanwhile something occurred that disturbed Phillip’s self-satisfaction. Crossing the Yard one morning, he encountered David lounging along, swinging a note-book and whistling very much out of tune. When he saw Phillip he hailed him and, crossing the grass with gigantic strides and leaps, shook hands.

“Haven’t seen you for a good while, Phil,” he said.

“No; I—I’ve been rather busy since I got back,” Phillip answered confusedly.

“Have you, boy? Look here, Phil, it’s none of my business—in a way—but I want to tell you that you’re making a big mistake. John has told me, you know. Now, whatever it is you’ve got against him, I’ll bet you dollars to pants buttons there’s nothing in it. He swears he doesn’t know what it is, and John doesn’t lie, Phil. He doesn’t know I’m saying this; he’d try to break my neck if he found it out. But you’ve hurt him quite a bit. If you’re in the right of it—why, there’s nothing more to be said. But if you’re making a mistake I think you’d better own up.”

“I don’t think there’s any mistake,” Phillip answered gravely.

“Think be damned! You’ve got to know, Phil! If you’re in the wrong it’s your duty, my boy, to say so, and if he’s in the wrong it’s equally your duty to tell him where. Now you think it over, will you? And, look here, Phil, supposing you come around some Sunday night—to-morrow, for instance—just to see me? You’ve got nothing against me, have you? Well, you come and call on me, then; it’s none of John’s business if you do, you know. Anyhow, think it over well, will you?”

Phillip could do no less than promise.

But what David had said impressed him. He had hitherto believed himself altogether in the right. Now he began to wonder whether, after all, he did not owe it to John to explain what he was charged with. Not that there could be any mistake. He had spoken with Guy Bassett and Bassett had readily acknowledged that John had seen him and asked him to refrain from playing poker with Phillip. But, declared Bassett, it had ended there; he had not mentioned the matter to any one else. Phillip was glad of that, but it did not, he told himself, mitigate John’s offense. John had treated him like an irresponsible child—had deceived him, had made him an object of amusement, perhaps ridicule, to Bassett at least; probably to David as well. Phillip could not forgive him that.

It was quite conceivable that John did not guess what he held against him; he probably did not for a moment suspect that Phillip had found him out. And so perhaps David was right and it was Phillip’s duty to acquaint John with the cause of the estrangement. But he would not call on David. He would write John a note. Yet, when it came down to doing so, when the paper was before him and the pen in his hand, the task proved too difficult; he was not a ready writer, and after several attempts he put it off. The result was that the note was never written.

On Thursday Phillip went to Everett’s room in Beck with his heart thumping madly under his new Ascot tie. The thought of meeting Betty again was as delicious as it was disquieting. How could he explain his apparent indifference to her existence during the past six weeks? Would she forgive him? He was forced to acknowledge that he had given her excellent reasons for not doing so.

When he reached Everett’s door sounds from within told him that the visitors had already arrived. When he entered he found them roaming about the study, examining the pictures, reading the shingles, peeping curiously among the litter on the mantel, and all the while deftly preening themselves, smoothing their dresses, touching their hair with little surreptitious glances into mirrors, and asking many questions and paying little heed to answers. It is scarcely fair, perhaps, to associate Mrs. Kingsford with the mild hurly-burly. She did her sightseeing very quietly. Phillip shook hands with her first and made his apologies for declining her invitation to dinner. He found her very gracious and forgiving.

“No, no, don’t apologize,” she replied. “Everett has explained. Study before social diversions, Mr. Ryerson, is, I am sure, a very good rule. But you will come in to see us soon, won’t you? We shall be happy to see you any time, and—we dine at half past seven. Don’t wait for Everett to invite you, but come whenever you can.”

Phillip muttered his thanks, feeling rather ashamed of himself for allowing her to credit him with such ideal devotion to study, and turned to the two girls. Betty was smiling across at him brightly, but it was a smile that he didn’t altogether like.

“I’m so glad to see you,” she said as she gave him her hand. “I’ve always had a devouring curiosity to look upon a real, genuine grind.”

“Grind?” he asked uncomfortably.

“Yes; one who burns the midnight oil, and wears wet towels around his head, and heroically resists all such attractions as dinners in order that he may stay locked up in his room studying hard. You’re very interesting, Mr. Ryerson.”

Phillip smiled unenjoyably and was glad for once to turn away from Betty. He shook hands with Miss Wayland, a pronounced and rather regal blonde, and exchanged a few words of banter with Everett. Then he glanced irresolutely toward Mrs. Kingsford and from her to Betty. Betty had perched herself on the window-seat and was temptingly accessible. Phillip took his courage in hand and dropped down beside her.

“Betty!”

Betty’s eyebrows arched in surprise.

“What did you call me?”

“Betty,” he faltered.

“Don’t you think it would be nicer to say Miss Kingsford?”

“No, I don’t,” he replied doggedly.

“I do; much nicer.” Betty hummed a tune.

“Betty,” he pleaded, “don’t be mean. It—I—I want to explain, please.”

“Explain what?” asked Betty, with a great show of interest.

“Why I haven’t been to see you.”

“Why, you were studying very hard, of course.”

“I wasn’t. I mean, that isn’t the reason.”

“Oh!” Betty’s face fell. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it all! You’re not a grind, after all? And to think of all the sympathy and admiration I’ve wasted on you! Really, you’re very disappointing!”

“Betty, please be serious,” Phillip begged.

“Serious? Very well, I’ll try.” She drew the corners of her mouth down and frowned intensely. Phillip sighed. “How long must I stay like this?” she asked. “It’s—it’s awfully puckery!”

“I—I got your picture,” said Phillip softly. “Thank you, Betty.”

“Picture?” Betty’s frown increased. “Picture? Oh, yes, of course. Gracious! I’d forgotten,” she fibbed. “I sent away so many of those old things Christmas! Did you like it?”

“Yes,” he answered miserably. Then, “Who did—how many did you give away?” he asked.

“How many? Oh, heaps; I can’t begin to remember. I always send photographs Christmas; it’s such a nice, easy way to give presents, isn’t it? I always think they’re lots nicer and more intimate than Christmas cards.”

“I don’t believe it,” he muttered doubtfully.

“What, that they’re nicer than cards? Oh, well, every one to his taste. Next time I’ll send you a card: one with a lovely little landscape all frosted over with that glittery stuff, and a nice little verse in the corner. I’m glad you told me; I like to know what people want, don’t you?”

“I didn’t mean that; you know I didn’t. Don’t you want me to tell you why I—why I haven’t been in to see you?”

“No.” Betty shook her head smilingly. “No, not the least bit in the world, Mr. Ryerson.”

“It used to be Phillip,” he accused, “before I went away.”

“You don’t mean—!” She paused in simulated dismay and horror—“you don’t mean that I called you that!”

“You know you did!”

“Not really? But there, I daresay I did. I’m always doing something awful unladylike and irreverent! But you’ll pardon me, won’t you?”

Phillip groaned and jumped up in exasperation. Betty’s eyes grew large with polite surprise. “You’re not well?” she exclaimed feelingly. Phillip looked down at her wrathfully.

“I’m afraid you’re studying too hard,” she said, shaking her head dubiously. “You mustn’t overdo it, you know.”

Thus ended a most unsatisfactory conversation, for Everett summoned Betty to make tea and Mrs. Kingsford took possession of Phillip. She found him in a most gloomy state of mind, and set herself to cheering him up with such good results that when they began the consumption of sandwiches and tea and cakes he was chatting quite volubly of his vacation and telling about Virginia. Betty, sitting across the study with Miss Wayland and Everett, observed Phillip’s cheerfulness and frowned. Once, during a lull in the conversation beside her, she heard Phillip exclaim warmly:

“Her name’s Ruby, Mrs. Kingsford, and she’s as pretty as a picture! She’s rather light, but has a mighty good colour; and she’s one of the graceful, trim sort, you know, with little bits of feet and slender ankles. I wish you could see her when——”

Then Everett spoke and the rest was lost to her; strain her ears as she might, she could not distinguish Phillip’s words; but she saw with keen displeasure that his eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm. Unappeased curiosity marred the rest of the afternoon for Betty. She wondered who Ruby could be. Some girl in Virginia, she supposed; and yet Virginians weren’t usually light, even if they were “of the graceful, trim sort.” As for those “little bits of feet and slender ankles—” Betty bit her lip and, thrusting her foot out from under her skirts, viewed it with dissatisfaction. The ankle was slender enough, she thought, but the heavy, broad-soled patent-leather Oxford made her foot look simply enormous. Not that it mattered, of course, only—“Slender ankles” indeed! She wished—oh, she did wish she had that photograph she had sent to Phillip! She would like to tear it to bits and throw it in his face!

Phillip walked to the chapel beside Mrs. Kingsford. He was resolved to prove to Betty that he was indifferent to her treatment; that if she thought she could amuse herself with impunity at his expense she was greatly, oh, very greatly, mistaken. Everett piloted them to the front row of the balcony, and when they were seated Phillip found himself between Mrs. Kingsford and Betty. He confined his attentions to the former, indicating the college celebrities as they entered, and telling her of Guy Bassett and how he attended chapel every morning because it gave him just the right length of walk. Mrs. Kingsford shook her head over that, but smiled nevertheless.

“But he doesn’t really mean it, you know,” Phillip hastened to explain. “That’s just his way of talking.”

Once he found the hymn and proffered the book to Betty.

“Thank you,” she said coldly; “I never sing.”

During service she sat very straight and still, looking calmly across the warm, cheerful little chapel, while Phillip, leaning back with folded arms, viewed her surreptitiously and found his resentment melting under a glow of feeling that set his heart aleap. When, presently, a little freckled-faced cherub in the choir-loft arose and filled the chapel with wondrous melody, Phillip’s heart not only leaped, but it seemed to swell until it pained him. He leaned toward Betty.

“Betty!” he whispered intensely, “Betty, I love you, dear!”

She turned from watching the angel-voiced singer and frowned upon him annoyedly.

“Please be still,” she said impatiently.

Phillip’s heart ceased leaping. It subsided with something that was very much like what Chester would have called a dull thud. He retired hurt and angry and made solemn vows never again to risk rebuff. Afterward they crossed the Yard in a tiny snow-squall to the square and stood for a minute under the shelter before the waiting-room. Betty turned to Phillip with a little flush in each cheek and her eyes asparkle with anger.

“I want you to give me back that photograph,” she said in a low voice. Phillip’s own cheeks reddened.

“Certainly,” he answered. “I have no wish to keep it. There are too many like it in—in circulation.”

Betty glared, almost speechless.

“I shall be at home to-morrow afternoon,” she said finally with superb dignity. “If your studies will allow, please bring it then.”

Phillip bowed. The car clanged its way up to the waiting-room and they scuttled for it. Phillip politely offered to help Betty up the steps. Betty looked the other way and leaped up them unassisted. Phillip caught a bewildering gleam of white skirts and patent-leather Oxfords. Then he and Everett were left standing bareheaded in the falling flakes.

“Subway-to-Park-Street,” shouted the starter hoarsely.

Everett dragged Phillip from the path of a trundling car. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go and get some red-hot chocolate. It will warm us up.”

“Yes,” echoed Phillip vaguely, “it will warm us up.” He followed the other through the crowd, dazed, miserable, and only came to a partial recovery of his faculties when he had fallen over a suit case and sent a harmless gentleman in a clerical garb staggering to the wall.

“Mamma,” asked Betty that evening, when they were alone, “what were you and Mr. Ryerson talking about so eagerly this afternoon?”

“Talking about?” repeated her mother. “Oh, he was telling me about his home in Virginia, dear.”

“Was that it?” asked Betty, stifling a yawn. “I didn’t know. I heard him saying something about somebody’s ankles—somebody named Ruby—and it didn’t sound quite proper.”

“Ankles? Ruby?” mused Mrs. Kingsford, striving to recollect. “Oh, yes; that was his horse, Betty. He calls her Ruby. He seems very fond of horses and dogs and animals, don’t you think?”

“Very,” answered Betty, her face suddenly arrayed in smiles. “But—what a funny name for a horse!” She laughed softly, and, placing her arm about her mother’s waist, gave a disconcerting hug. “Don’t you think that is a funny name for a horse, mamma?”

Mrs. Kingsford suddenly understood.

“Very,” she answered, smiling discreetly into her mirror.