. "Tommy, tell
Norah to put on a plate for you."

"I can't really, Mrs. Norris. This is Thursday night, you see, and I'm
going around to the Club." Then as his hostess disappeared up the
stairs, he hurried into his overcoat and, indulging in only a small
fraction of his usual recessional with the Dean, he was gone.

Outside, walking down the long driveway that led to Tutors' Lane, Tom
slowed his pace. Overhead, Betelgeuse was making the most of its recent
publicity, unobstructed by vagrant clouds. Tom gazed up at it with a
certain air of proprietorship. He had known Betelgeuse years ago and
personally had always preferred its neighbour Rigel, which had received
no publicity at all. As a small boy some one had given him a Handbook of
the Stars, with diagrams of the constellations on one page and chatty
notes about them opposite. He had lain on his back out in the fields,
with opera glasses to sweep the heavens and a flashlight to sweep the
diagrams until he had reconciled the two. This had been in the summer,
and although his observations had extended to the autumn stars, the
winter constellations had suffered. Still, he knew the great ones and,
weather permitting, he would gaze upon them and their neighbours with
awe, the greater, perhaps, for his unfamiliarity with their diagrams.

Tom occasionally gave parlour lessons in astronomy, and he had given one
to Nancy on the night of his Senior Prom, the night of the cooky
contest. He had looked out and seen that the summer stars were up, and
had spoken of it, to the boredom of Mary and Teddy Roberts. But Nancy
wanted Scorpio pointed out, and from Scorpio they naturally progressed
to the others until Nancy sneezed and the kitchen window had to be shut.
Then, as it was getting light anyway and the waffles were ready, they
stopped the lesson. Tom, however, with the true teacher's instinct, had
sent her a copy of his Handbook of the Stars, and at his Training Camp
he had received a note of thanks. It was the only note he had ever
received from her, and he found it remarkable. She had thanked him
without the barrage of gratitude usual among young ladies on such
occasions. There had been something masculine in the directness of it,
and yet there was no doubt that she had been pleased. In closing, she
looked forward to seeing him back at Woodbridge when the war was over.
There had been no fine writing about his Going to the Flag. Tom had been
impressed by the amount left unsaid,