At this a shout went up, and Stover’s ears began to boil.
“I don’t see what you’re ha-ha-ing about, Mr. McNab,” continued the Judge, diverting the attack, “descending upon us, a quiet, respectable backwoods family, with a boutonnière! I think that’s putting on a good deal of airs, don’t you? Now, boys, don’t let these young society ladies from Farmington pretend they’re too delicate to eat. You ought to see the breakfast they devoured. Everybody happy all right.”
In five minutes all were at ease, chattering away like so many magpies. Stover, finding that his breath came easier, recovered himself and listened with a tolerant sense of pleasure while Miss Sparkes rushed on.
“The girls up at Farmington will be so excited when they hear I’ve actually sat next to you at the table. You know, we’re all just crazy about football. Oh, it gets me so excited! Dudley’s the new captain, isn’t he? I met him last summer at a dance down at Long Island. I admire him tremendously, don’t you? He has such a strong character.”
He nodded from time to time, replied in dignified monosyllables, and became pleasurably aware that Miss Raymond, opposite, in disloyalty to her companion, had one ear trained to catch his slightest word, while Miss Green and Miss Woostelle, farther away, watched him covertly over the foliage of the celery. He was a lion among ladies for the first time—a sensation he had sworn to loathe and detest; and yet there was in him a sort of warm growing feeling that he could not explain but that was quite far from unpleasant.
“If Miss Sparkes, Mr. Stover, will stop whispering in your ear for just a moment,” said the Judge, on mischief bent, “you can help Mrs. Story with the beef.”
“You’ll get accustomed to him soon,” said his hostess, smiling. “There, if you’ll steady the platter I think we two can manage it. I am so glad to have you here. Bob has spoken of you so often. I hope you’ll be good friends.”
There was something leonine and yet very feminine in her face, a quiet and restfulness that drew him irresistibly to her and gave him the secret of the reserve and charm that was in her children.
Of all the delegation from school, Jean Story alone had not seemed aware of his imposing stature. She was sitting between Hungerford and Hunter, whom she called by his first name, and her way of speaking, unlike the impulsiveness of her companions, was measured and thoughtful. She had a quantity of ash-colored hair which, like her dress, seemed to be floating about her. Her forehead was clear, a little serious, and her eyes, while devoid of coquetry, held him with their directness and simplicity.
He found himself only half hearing the conversation that Miss Sparkes rolled into his ear, watching the movements of other hands, feeling a little antagonism to Hunter and wondering how long they had known each other.
Dinner over, he forgot his shyness, and went up to her with the quick direction which was impulsive in him when he was strongly interested.
“I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Yes?”
She looked at him, a little surprised at the bluntness of his introduction, but not displeased.
“You are very like your brother,” he said. She seemed younger than he had thought.
“I am glad of that,” she answered, with a genuine smile. “Bob and I are old friends.”
“I hope you’ll be my friend,” he said.
She turned, and then, seeing in his face only sincerity, nodded her head slightly and said:
“Thank you.”
He said very little more, ill at ease, a feeling that also seemed to have gained possession of her.
Miss Raymond and Miss Woostelle came up, and he found himself restored to the role of a hero, a little piqued at Miss Story’s different attitude, always aware of her movements, hearing her low voice through all the chatter of the room.
He went home very thoughtful, keeping out of the laughing discussion that went on, watching from the corner of his eye Hunter, and wondering with a little unexplained resentment just how well he knew the Storys.
XIII
With Stover’s return after the Christmas vacation the full significance of the society dominion burst over him. The night that the hold-offs were to be given, there was a little joking at the club table, but it was only lip-deep. The crisis was too vital. Chris Schley and Troutman, who were none too confident, were plainly nervous.
Stover and McCarthy walked home directly to their rooms, and took up the next day’s lessons as a convenient method of killing time.
“You’re not worrying?” said Stover suddenly.
McCarthy put down the penitential book, and, rising, stretched himself, nervously resorting to his pipe.
“Not for a hold-off—no. That ought to be all right.”
“And afterward?”
“Don’t speak about it.”
“Rats! You’ll be pledged about the eighth or tenth.”
“What time is it?” said McCarthy shortly.
“Five minutes more.”
This time each took up his book in order to be found in an inconsequential attitude, outwardly indifferent, as all Anglo-Saxons should be. From without, the hour rang its dull, leaden, measured tones. Almost immediately a knock sounded on the door, and Le Baron appeared, hurried, businesslike, mysterious, saying:
“Stover, want to see you in the other room a moment.”
Dink retired with him into the bedroom, and received his hold-off in a few matter-of-fact sentences. A second after, Le Baron was out of the door, rushing down the steps.
“Your turn next,” said Stover, with a wave of his hand to McCarthy.
“Yes.”
The sound of hurrying feet and the shudder of hastily banged doors filled the house.
“My, they’re having a busy time of it,” said Stover.
“Yes.”
Ten minutes passed. McCarthy, staring at his page, mechanically took up the dictionary, hiding the fear that started up. Stover rose, going to the window.
“They’re running around Pierson Hall like a lot of ants,” he said, drumming against the window.
“How far’s this advance go?” said McCarthy in a matter-of-fact tone.
“End
