glanced at the bouquet almost before he looked
at Molly. Then he shook her stiffly by the hand and, turning away,
devoted himself to the post-grad.

"Do they know that my mother has lost all her money in their cousin's
mine?" Molly thought. "Perhaps that's the reason why Professor Green is
so cold tonight. He's embarrassed."

At dinner Molly sat between Will Stewart and an elegant, rich young man
named Raymond Bellaire, who talked in rather a drawling voice about
yachting parties and cross-country riding and motoring. "At college, you
know, the fellahs are awfully set on those little two-seated electric
affairs." What car did Molly prefer? Molly was obliged to admit that
she preferred the Stewart car in New York, whatever that was, it being
the only one she had ever ridden in.

The young man screwed a monocle into one eye and looked at her. He was
half English and had half a right to a monocle, but Molly wished he
wouldn't screw up his eye like that. It made her want to laugh. However,
he didn't appear to notice at all that she was endeavoring to keep the
irresistible laugh-curve from her lips. He only looked at her harder,
and then remarked:

"I say, by Jove, you'd make a jolly fine Portia. Did you ever think of
going on the stage?"

"Oh, no; I'm going to be a school teacher," answered Molly.

"School teacher?" he repeated aghast. "You? With that hair and--by
Jove--those violets!" His eyes had lighted on the mammoth bunch. "Tell
that to the marines."

Molly flushed.

"The violets haven't anything to do with my teaching school," she said a
little indignantly. "And neither has my hair. Didn't you ever see a
red-headed school teacher?"

"Not when her hair curled like that and had glints of gold in it."

"You're teasing me because I'm only a sophomore," she said, and turned
her head away.

"No, by Jove, I'm not though," protested Raymond Bellaire, looking much
pained. But Molly was talking to Willie Stewart at her right.

That young man was the most correct individual in the matter of clothes,
deportment and small talk she had ever seen. She thought of his splendid
father, who had started life as a bootblack.

"I wonder if he's pleased with his fashion-plate son?" she pondered.

She didn't care for him or his friends. They were not like the jolly
boys over at Exmoor, who talked about basket-ball and football, and
swopped confidences regarding Latin and Greek and that _awful_ French
Literature examination