the men in evening clothes as her father and the
imperial woman as her mother. He understood then that they were, indeed,
of Sylvia's sort, for during his cross-country work he had frequently
passed their home, an immense Tudor house in the midst of pleasant
acres.

It was because of the girl that the pitfalls of dinner were bridged. In
the technique of accepting Mrs. Bailly's excellent courses he was always
a trifle behind her. She made conversation, moreover, surprisingly easy.
After the first few moments, during which no one troubled to probe his
past, the older people left them to themselves. She didn't ask what his
prep was, or where he lived, or any other thing to make him stammer.

"You look like a football player," she said, frankly.

They talked of his work. He said he had admired her home during his
runs. She responded naturally:

"When we are really back you must come and see it more intimately."

The invitation to enter the gates!

He fell silent. Would it be fair to go without giving her an opportunity
to treat him as Sylvia had done? Why should she inspire such a question?
Hadn't he willed his past to oblivion? Hadn't he determined to take
every short cut? Of course he would go, as George Morton, undergraduate,
football player, magician with horses. The rest was none of her
business.

They were in Princeton, she explained, only for a few days from time to
time, but would be definitely back when college opened. She, too, was
going to be introduced to society that winter. He wanted to ask her how
it was done. He pictured a vast apartment, dense with unpleasant people,
and a man who cried out with a brazen voice: "Ladies and gentlemen! This
is Miss Sylvia Planter. This is Miss Betty Alston." Quite like an
auction.

"It must be wonderful to play football," she was saying. "I should have
preferred to be a man. What can a girl do? Bad tennis, rotten golf,
something with horses."

He smiled. He could impress Betty Alston, but there was no point in
that, because she was a girl, and he could think of only one girl.

Yet he carried home an impression of unexpected interest and kindness.
Her proximity, the rustling of her gown, the barely detectable perfume
from her tawny hair, furnished souvenirs intangible but very warm in his
memory. They made the portrait and the broken crop seem lifeless and
unimpressive.

He forced himself to stare at Sylvia's likeness until the old hypnotic
sense returned.

V