while in her
effort to induce him to prolong his visit; but now he rudely wrenched
them loose and drew himself to the very tallest of his tall self.

"I wouldn't go anywhere that man was," he exclaimed fiercely, "if he
paid me a million dollars a minute! Not unless it was to his funeral,
and I'd attend that with the greatest pleasure, and even pay for the
privilege of getting into the cemetery!"

"Timothy Jarvis! Aren't you ashamed of yourself? Mr. Bennet said he
liked you! He was being kind!"

"Well, he needn't be kind to me, for I certainly don't want any of his
kindness! I can get along a great deal better without it! You can tell
him that from me, if you please! And _I_ most certainly didn't like
_him_! He's a four-flusher, for fair, if ever _I_ saw one!"

And before Arethusa had even begun to recover from the Awfulness of
this Speech, Timothy of the Sore Heart had run on down the steps, was
safe in the automobile, and Clay had driven away with him.

Arethusa could not possibly follow.

But Ross would have stopped her if she had even tried, for he had
promised Timothy he might go to the station absolutely alone. Timothy
had asked him before breakfast. For once, Arethusa's wishes had been
over-ridden; she had made all sorts of loud objections to the carrying
out of this idea. But Ross knew, as well as if Timothy had given him
his reason for making this request, that the miserable boy who was so
sure he was leaving his Life's Happiness, forever, would far rather say
a farewell to that Happiness in the presence of folks that he knew to
help him keep a grip on himself than to wait until the last moments at
the station; those moments when a parting is so surely at hand, that it
brings a breaking-down even to those who would be strongest, sometimes.

It was so like Timothy to have the last word and then run away, that
after Arethusa got over her violent anger with him for the Words of
Blasphemy he had spoken of the Wonderful Mr. Bennet, she laughed and
laughed at the thought. How many times he had done the very same thing!

Then came what Ross had called the "Real Event of the Season"--that
long looked-forward-to January Cotillion.

CHAPTER XXII

The January Cotillion was always held in the very oldest hotel in
Lewisburg. All other really fashionable entertainments had long ago
ceased to be given there, for it was very far down-town, the heart of
the wholesale district had crept up around it, and its ch