Mrs. Story came to his rescue, smiling a little at his telltale face.
“Don’t stop on my account,” said Stover, very much embarrassed. “It’s a beautiful day for a ride, beautiful.”
“Oh, you are not going to get off as easily as that,” said the Judge, delighted. “My daughter Jean is inside watching you from behind the curtains. Go right up and entertain her with some sidesplitting stories. Besides, Miss Kelly is there with some important top-heavy junior who thinks he’s making an awful hit with her. Go in and steal her right away from him.”
The maid stood at the open door. There was nothing to do but to toil up the penal steps, heart in mouth.
“Is Miss Story in?” he said in a lugubrious voice. “Will you present her with this card?”
“Step right into the parlor, sah. You’ll find Miss Jean there,” said the colored maid, with no feeling at all for his suffering.
He caught a fleeting, unreassuring glimpse of himself in a dark mirror, successfully negotiated the sliding rugs, and all at once found himself somehow in the cheery parlor alone with Miss Story, shaking hands.
“Miss Kelly is here?” he said, perfunctorily stalking to a chair.
“No, indeed.”
“Why your father said—”
“That was only his way—he’s a dreadful tease.”
Stover drew a more quiet breath, and even relaxed into a smile.
“He had me all primed up for a junior, at least.”
“Isn’t Dad dreadful! That’s why you came in with such overpowering dignity?”
Stover laughed, a little pleased that his entrance could be so described, and, shifting to a less painfully contracted position, sought anxiously for some brilliant opening that would make the conversation a distinguished success.
Now, although he still retained his invincible determination to keep his faith from women, he had during certain pleasant episodes of the last vacation condescended to listen politely to the not disagreeable adoration of a score of hero-worshiping young ladies still languishing in boarding-schools. He had learned the trick of such conversations, exchanged photographs with the laudable intention of making his rooms more like an art gallery than ever, and carried off as mementos such articles as fans, handkerchiefs, flowers, etc.
But, somehow, the stock phrases were out of place here. He tried one or two openings, and then relapsed, watching her as she took up the conversation easily and ran on. Ever since their first meeting the charming silhouette of the young girl had been in his mind. He watched her as she rose once or twice to cross the room, and her movements had the same gentle rhythm that mystified him in her voice. Yet he was conscious of a certain antagonism. His vanity, perhaps, was a little stirred. She was not flattered in the least by his attentions, which in itself was an incredible thing. There was about her not the slightest suggestion of coquetry—in fact, not more than a polite uninterested attitude toward a guest. And, perceiving this all at once, a desire came to him to force from her some recognition.
“You are very much like Bob,” he said abruptly, “you are very hard to know.”
“Really?”
“I really want to know your brother, but I can’t. I don’t think he likes me,” he said.
“I don’t think Bob knows you,” she said carefully, raising her eyes in a little surprise. “You’re right; we both take a long time to make up our minds.”
“Then what I said is true?” he persisted.
She looked at him a moment, as if wondering how frank she might be, and said after a little deliberation:
“I think he’s in a little doubt about you.”
“In doubt,” said the prospective captain of a Yale eleven, vastly amazed. “How?”
“You will succeed; I am sure of that.”
“Well, what then?” he said, wondering what other standard could be applied.
“I wonder how real you will be in your success,” she said, looking at him steadily.
“You think I am calculating and cold about it,” he said, insisting.
She nodded her head, and then corrected herself.
“I think you are in danger of it—being entirely absorbed in yourself—not much to give to others—that’s what I mean.”
“By George,” said Dink, open-mouthed, “you are the strangest person I ever met in my life!”
She colored a little at this, and said hastily:
“I beg your pardon; I didn’t realize what I was saying.”
“You may be right, too.” He rose and walked a little, thinking it over. He stopped suddenly and turned to her. “Why do you think I’m not ‘real’?”
“I don’t believe you have begun to think yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because—well, because you are too popular, too successful. It’s all come too easily. You’ve had nothing to test you. There’s nothing so much alike as the successful men here.”
“You are very old for your years,” he said, plainly annoyed.
“No; I listen. Bob and Dad say the same thing.”
“You know, I wanted you to be my friend,” he said, suddenly brushing aside the conversation. “You remember?”
“I should like to be your friend,” she said quietly.
“If I turn out as you want.”
“Certainly.”
He seized an early opportunity to leave, furious at what (not understanding that the instincts of a first antagonism in a young girl are sometimes evidence of a growing interest) he felt was her indifference. He did not go directly to his rooms, but struck out for a brisk walk up the avenue.
“What the deuce does she think I’m going to turn out?” he said to himself, with some irritation. “Turn out? Absurd! Haven’t I done everything I should do? I’ve only been here a year, and I stand for something. By George, I’d like to know how many men get where I’ve gotten the first year.” Looking back over the year, he was quickly reassured on this vital point. “If she thinks I’m calculating, how about Hunter? He’s the original cold fish,” he said. “Yes, what about him? Absurd. She just said that to provoke me.” He sought in his mind some epithet adequate to such impertinence, and declared: “She’s young—that’s it; she’s
