ly could not have survived.

Happily for him, they did not appear to expect it and he balanced a
chair on its hind legs and, resting one knee upon it, waited patiently
for them to begin a conversation; he could not have uttered a single
word.

The aunt came to his rescue: "You don't ask after your Uncle Samuel,
who used to send you the beetles?" she said, reprovingly.

"No," said Flushington, who had forgotten Uncle Samuel and his beetles,
too; "no, how is Uncle Samuel--quite well, I hope?"

"Only tolerably so, thank you, Fred; you see, he never got over his
great loss."

"No," said Flushington desperately, "of course not; it was a--a large
sum of money to lose at once."

"I was not referring to money," said she, with a slight touch of
stoniness in her manner; "I was alluding to the death of your Cousin
John."

Flushington had felt himself getting on rather well just before that,
but this awkward mistake--for he could not recollect having heard of
Cousin John before--threw him off his balance again; he collapsed into
silence once more, inwardly resolving to be lured into no more
questions concerning relatives.

His ignorance seemed to have aroused pathetic sentiments in his aunt.
"I ought to have known," she said, shaking her head, "they'd soon
forget us in the old country; here's my own sister's son, and he
doesn't remember his cousin's death! Well, well, now we're here, we
must see if we can't know one another a little better. Fred, you must
take the girls and me everywhere and show us everything, like a good
nephew, you know."

Flushington had a horrible mental vision of himself careering about all
Cambridge, followed by a long procession of female relatives--a fearful
possibility to so shy a man. "Shall you be here long?" he asked.

"Only a week or so; we're at the 'Bull,' very near you, you see; and
I'm afraid you think us very bold beggars, Fred, but we're going to ask
you to give us something to eat. I've set my heart, so have the girls
(haven't you, dears?), on lunching once with a college student in his
own room."

"There's nothing so extraordinary in it, I assure you," protested
Flushington, "and--and I'm afraid there's very little for you to eat.
The kitchen and buttery are closed" (he said this at a venture, as he
felt absolutely unequal to facing the college cook and ordering lunch
from that tremendous personage; he would rather order it from his own
tutor, even). "But, if you don't mind