r; things moved more smoothly for his presence,
and--as she wrote Jimsy--he knew everything about everywhere. On the
whole, it was pleasanter, more like home, more like the good days on
South Figueroa Street, to have him about; she could sometimes almost
cajole herself into thinking Jimsy must be there, too, in the next room,
hurrying up the street, a little late for dinner, but there, near them.
It was only when Carter talked to her of Jimsy that she grew anxious,
even acutely unhappy. It wasn't, she would decide, thinking it over
later, lying awake in the dark, so much what Carter had said--it was
what he hadn't said in words. It was the thing that sounded in his
voice, that was far back in his eyes.

"Yes," he would say, smiling in reminiscence, "that was a party! Nothing
ever like it at Stanford before in the memory of the oldest inhabitant,
they say. And old Jimsy--I wish you could have seen him! No, I don't
really, for you wouldn't have approved and the poor old scout would have
been in for a lecture, but it was----"

"Carter," Honor would interrupt, "do you mean, can you possibly mean
that Jimsy--that he's--" She found she couldn't say it after all; she
couldn't put it into the ugly definite words.

"Oh, nothing serious, Honor! Nothing for you to worry about! He has to
do more or less as others do, a man of his prominence in college. It's
unavoidable. Of course, it might be better if he could steer clear of
that sort of thing altogether--" he would stop at a point like that and
frown into space for a moment, as if remembering, weighing, considering,
and Honor's heart would sink coldly. Then he would brighten again and
lay a reassuring hand on her sleeve. "But you mustn't worry. Jimsy's got
a level head on his shoulders, and he has too much at stake to go too
far. He'll be all right in the end, Honor, I'm sure of that. And you
know I'll always keep an eye on him!".

And Honor twisting on her finger the ring with the clasped hands and the
hidden blue stone of constancy which she always wore except when her
mother was with her, would manage a smile and say, "I know how devoted
you are to him, Carter. You couldn't help it, could you?--Every one is.
And you mean to help him; I know that. I _am_ grateful. It's next best
to being with him myself." Then, because she couldn't trust herself to
talk very much about Jimsy, she would resolutely change the subject and
Carter would write home to his hoping mother that Honor