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"Beck Hall, Cambridge, 6th June 1889.

"Dear Charlie,—My sister is in Boston for a few days staying with the Crumps. Will you come here to my room to-morrow, Saturday, about five, to meet her, and have tea?—Yours,

R. Hornblower"

There were several reasons why the foregoing note should take Charlie Grace by surprise. Of these the most important lay in the separation that nearly two years at Harvard had wrought between himself and the two friends with whom he had entered on his university career. Owing to the necessity of making the best clubs, and not being seen with the wrong people, Furny and Reggie Hornblower had been obliged to drop him. The process, which had begun during the latter part of the freshman year, was in full operation when they returned to Cambridge as sophomores. That it was pleasant to the victim of it could not be admitted; and yet he was philosophic enough to see that if his old chums were to reach the goal of their ambitions it could only be at the sacrifice of friendship. Perhaps the one marked experience of his earlier months at Harvard was in finding himself weeded out from among "the right people" and herded with "the wrong." His astonishment was the greater in that he had not supposed the process to be going on before discovering the fact accomplished. The method had been as silent and mysterious as the return of winter, and as cold.

At first the several hundred young men who formed the freshman class had represented multitude without personality, like a swarm of bees. Then had come broad and general lines of cleavage; then affiliations and selections; then elections and segregations; then the scorn from the top and the envy from the bottom that have characterized the social groupings of mankind since the world began.

To do Charlie Grace justice he was tolerably free from envy. He had had moments of indignation and revolt; but he had learned that if his old chums were to reap the highest advantages of Harvard they must do it in the Harvard way. They could not afford to be intimate with him; they could hardly afford to know him.

Perceiving this he was able to be tolerant when he thought of them, and could even justify, from the Harvard point of view, their methods of procedure. Nevertheless he was obliged to read Reggie's letter a second and a third time to be sure of its meaning. It could hardly be that after the embarrassing shifts to which he had driven Reggie during the past eighteen months the latter could be inviting him now to a social function. If he were giving a tea he would be "queering himself," as the phrase began to go among undergraduates, by the mere presence of such an outsider as himself. And yet what else did the invitation imply? If Fanny were coming she must of necessity be accompanied by Mrs Crump; and in Boston Crump was a name to command awe. Just to be admitted where Mrs Crump was doing the honours would be little short of being "taken up."

He began to pace his room. It was time for him to run out to the frugal breakfast he took at a counter in Harvard Square, but he had forgotten he was hungry. There was one suggestion which might offer an explanation but which he did his best to put away. He could have done this the more easily if it had come for the first time; but unfortunately the suspicion that Fanny cared for him was of nearly a year's duration. It had struck him quite suddenly, one day in the preceding summer when he had spent a Sunday at Idlewild, in Reggie's absence. Since then it had haunted him, though whenever it came he tried to dismiss it by calling himself an ass. He called himself an ass again; but the ridiculous thought persisted.

It was this persistence that finally sent him to his desk.

"Dear Reggie,—Awfully sorry. Very busy. Can't come. Yours,

C. Grace"

He felt better after that. He could even have forgotten the incident, if, on coming back to his room later in the day, he had not found a note from Fanny herself, delivered at the house by hand.

"Dear Charlie,—Reggie telephones me that you are not coming to his rooms this afternoon. Do try to. I must see you somewhere. I have something very important to tell you. Very sincerely yours,

"Frances Hornblower"

There was nothing for it, then, but to brush up his best suit, which he rarely had occasion to put on, and present himself at Beck a little after five. He had not been in Reggie's quarters since the early freshman weeks, before the process of election and predestination had begun. After his own dingy lodging he couldn't help finding the Beck Hall suite impressive—with its arm-chairs and cushions and hangings—with its handsome book-cases full of handsome books, and its appropriate Harvard sporting trophies decoratively arranged. It being June the windows were open, and a faint fragrance of lilac stole in. Down in the courts, between the hall and the gray stone church, privileged, god-like youths were playing tennis.

In response to his knock Reggie himself opened the door, greeting him with the over-friendliness that tries to hide constraint.

"Hello, old Charlie. Gad, it's good to see you. Where do you keep yourself all the time? Here's Fanny. Mrs Crump, this is Mr Grace. You must have heard me speak of him."

Mrs Crump, whose position at the tea-table placed her in profile toward the door, turned and surveyed him with a look that said nothing at all. She was plain, stout, middle-aged, and dressed in white.

"How do you like your tea?" she asked, in a neutral voice, without further greeting. "Lemon or cream?"

He thanked her, and declined tea, whereupon she turned to Reggie who had already retaken his seat beside her.

"So I told her," she continued to Reggie, speaking in her even, neutral voice, "that if she scattered her invitations broadcast like that she couldn't look to me to keep her straight. She hardly could, could she? What do you think?"

Reggie, with his elbows on his knee, his saucer in one hand and his cup in the other, proceeded to give his opinion in the low tones of one who discusses a reverent theme reverently. He had all the good looks in the Hornblower family, the face being delicate, perhaps too delicate, and not without a touch of distinction. The eyes were prominent, and rather weak; but the mouth was well-formed, and marked by the coming of a young moustache. In his grey coat and trousers, relieved by a white waistcoat of the latest cut, and set off by a lavender-grey tie with a pearl in it, he was immaculately spick and span. For the first time since his coming to Harvard Charlie Grace began to perceive that between the right people and the wrong there was a gulf, to the width and depth of which he had not hitherto done justice. He questioned whether he could ever have looked like that, even with Reggie's tailor and resources.

"Won't you come over here and talk to me?"

He found himself sitting beside the open window with Fanny, who was eating a bit of cake and sipping her tea. They talked at first of things indifferent, of his work in college, of her winter abroad.

He had not seen her since the previous summer at Idlewild, and noted at once that she had changed for the better. Perhaps because the Parisian couturière had dressed her in feathers and laces and soft swathing things she was less angular and severe. Into the creamy white of her costume the artist had introduced touches of pale blue satin, which brought out the sweet mistiness of her pale blue eyes.

Some ten desultory minutes had gone by when Mrs Crump rose and said:

"We're going down to the courts to see the tennis. I suppose you don't want to come?"

As though in response to a cue already arranged, Fanny replied:

"No; it's too hot. We'll sit here and watch you from the window."

Charlie Grace wondered what it all meant. Evidently tea was over, and no more guests were expected. The whole thing had seemingly been arranged for him. The very movement of the host and the chaperon toward the tennis-courts looked, as he said to himself, "like a put-up job." He confessed himself mystified.

"Sit down again," Fanny said, at once, when the door had closed. "We mayn't have many minutes, and I must talk to you. I've really come to Boston on purpose. I asked Mrs Crump to take me in, and to come with me this afternoon."

Her manner had changed. As she spoke she pulled on her long gloves nervously, continuing to smooth the fingers after they were smooth already. She had drawn down her veil so that he could see her features less distinctly. He had never seen her wear a veil before. It gave the finishing touch to her appearance as a grown-up young lady.

"I suppose," she began again, "you have no idea of what I'm going to tell you?"

He shook his head. "Not the slightest—unless it is that you're engaged."

"Please don't joke, Charlie. I've come to Boston on purpose. I was afraid—" She hesitated, looking about her as though for help—"I was afraid you might hear it in some way that would be more of a shock to you. I thought that if I told you, it mightn't—it mightn't seem so hard. I daresay it will, though—"

"But what is it, Fanny? What on earth is up?"

"It's about your father."

He was startled. "About my father?"

"Then I see you haven't heard at all. They've asked him—"

She stopped, biting her lower lip, trying to get sufficient self-control to go on. He set himself to think of the worst, of the most improbable, calamity that could overtake the rector of St David's.

"They haven't asked him—" He brought out the words with some difficulty—"they haven't asked him—to resign?"

"Not just in that way. They've asked him to accept the position of rector emeritus."

It was a relief to be able to say: "What's that?"

She tried to explain. "It isn't resigning exactly. It's still being a sort of rector—a sort of honorary rector—though someone else would do the work."

He went straight to the point he knew to be the most practical. "And get the salary?"

"I—I suppose so."

"And my father wouldn't have anything at all?"

"They've discussed that—I understand—in the vestry. They'd be glad to give your father a salary—a large salary—only they think the income of the church—which has fallen off a good deal of late years—perhaps you didn't know that—"

"Oh, yes, I did. And they put the blame on my father."

"It isn't blame exactly. It's—O Charlie, I hardly know how to express it!—But you see, he's not young—and he's been rector of St David's a good many years—"

"And they want a change."

"Oh, don't look like that. You make me feel as if my coming to Boston to tell you hadn't done any good."

"It's done a lot of good. If I'd heard it in any other way I don't know how I should have taken it. I'll thank you later. Just now I need to get to the bottom of the thing. It's as I say, isn't it? My father has been there too long; they're tired of him; and they want a change?"

"Not really a change. That's secondary. They only think that if they had a younger man—and more modern methods in the parish—"

"And how do they expect my father to live?"

She gazed at him wonderingly. It was evidently the sort of question she had not been in the habit of considering.

"I'm afraid I haven't thought about that. I didn't ask. I suppose they thank he—he has money."

"He hasn't—hardly any."

"O Charlie, hasn't he? That makes it worse, doesn't it?"

"It makes it decidedly worse. It makes it so much worse that—"

He didn't finish the sentence. There was in reality no way to finish it. How disastrous the situation was no one could say just yet. He got up to go.

She too rose. "You see, Charlie," she said, with tears in her eyes and in her voice, "you see, I've heard them talking of it for some time past. I naturally would—with the interest papa and mamma have always taken in the parish. But I hoped—oh, I did hope!—it wouldn't happen. And then there was a meeting of the vestry at which they decided to bring it before the parish—and the parish meeting was held on Wednesday night—and the vote was—"

"I see, I see," he interrupted, wishing to spare her. "I know how it would be done. And they told my father the next day?"

"No, not the next day. Only yesterday. Papa was on the committee—so I knew it was going to be—and I came right on. I wired to Mrs Crump—she's always been so kind—"

He held out his hand. "Good-bye," he said abruptly. "Say good-bye for me to Reggie. You'll excuse my running away, won't you? I've got to think it over, and see what I have to do. I shall not try to thank you yet—"

He was still young enough to lose his voice in a choking sensation that sent him hurriedly away, especially after he had seen her turn suddenly to the window with her handkerchief to her lips.

He was near the door before she found herself able to say:

"You know, Charlie, if there's any immediate need of money—I always have some—and I could get more."

He turned with his hand on the knob. "Thank you, Fanny; but there won't be any need of that sort. I've some money of my own. Perhaps you didn't know that when my grandfather died last year he left me six thousand dollars. If necessary I shall spend it all—"

"Oh, but wouldn't that be a pity? Wouldn't it be better—if it's invested—to leave it—? You'll excuse me for interfering, won't you, Charlie? You don't know how broken hearted I am—about the whole thing."

"You're kinder than I can say, Fanny; but you see, with regard to money, I must take up the responsibilities of my father's support. I don't care what I spend—"

"But he has other children. I don't see why it should all come on you."

"He has other children, but they're not so near to him as I am. My brother Edward doesn't seem like his son at all. He's only come to see father two or three times in the last fifteen years. He hasn't been very successful, either. And of course I couldn't let Emma take Osborne Tomlinson's money—but there'll be no trouble about that. It's only the idea of the thing that I mind—the humiliation for poor father. As for money in itself I know I could make plenty—I feel it in me—if I wasn't hampered."

"Hampered—how?"

He looked vaguely away from her. "Oh, well, I don't know. I shall have to think it all over."