The Guarded Heights. Camp Wadsworth

the end of that time he signed his paper, sat back, and examined the anxious young men crowded about him in the long room. From these he must sooner or later detach the ones of value to himself. That first quick appraisal disclosed little; they were clothed too much to a pattern, wearing black jerseys, more often than not, black clothes, with black caps hanging from the supports of their chairs. In their faces, however, were visible differences that made him uneasy. Even from a uniform, then, men, to an extent, projected discrepancies of birth, or training, or habit. He sighed and turned in his paper.

      At the foot of the stairs groups collected, discussing the ordeal pessimistically. As he started to walk through, several spoke to George.

      "How did you hit it, Morton?"

      Already he was well spotted. He paused and joined the apprehensive chatter.

      "It's a toss-up with me," Rogers admitted. "Don't tell me any answers. If ignorance is bliss, I want to stay dumb."

      He caught George's arm.

      "Have you met Dicky Goodhue? Hello, Goodhue!"

      Goodhue gave the impression of not having met Rogers to any extent. He was a sturdy young man with handsome, finely formed features. George looked at him closely, because this young man alone of the Freshmen he had met remained unmoved by his fame.

      "Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue."

      Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully.

      "George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary. "Stringham, you know, and Green – "

      "Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently.

      "Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away.

      Goodhue, it came upon him with a new appreciation of difficulties, was the proper sort. He watched him walk off with a well-dressed, weak-looking youth, threading a careless course among his classmates.

      "How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as he crossed the campus with Rogers.

      "Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number of times. Ran into him last night."

      "Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?"

      "You don't know who Dicky Goodhue is!" Rogers cried. "I mean, you must have heard of his father anyway, the old Richard. Real Estate for generations. Money grows for them without their turning a hand. Dicky's up at the best clubs in New York. Plays junior polo on Long Island."

      George had heard enough.

      "If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in."

      With Freshmen customs what they were, he was thinking, he could appear as well dressed as the Goodhue crowd. He would take pains with that.

      He passed Goodhue on his way to the examination hall that afternoon, and Goodhue didn't remember him. The incident made George thoughtful. Was football going to prove the all-powerful lever he had fancied? At any rate, Rogers' value was at last established.

      He reported that evening to Bailly:

      "I think it's all right so far."

      The tutor grinned.

      "To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles, among other dragons, French."

      He pointed out passages in a number of books.

      "Wrestle with those until midnight," he counselled, "and then go to sleep. Day after to-morrow we'll hope you can apply your boot to a football again."

      Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall.

      "How did it go?" she asked, eagerly.

      Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the first time a feeling of being at home in Princeton.

      "I got through to-day," he said.

      "Good! Good!"

      She nodded toward the study.

      "Then you have made him very happy."

      "I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?"

      She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion.

      IX

      As George let himself out of the gate a closed automobile turned the corner and drew up at the curb. The driver sprang down and opened the door. Betty Alston's white-clad figure emerged and crossed the sidewalk while George pulled off his cap and held the gate open for her. He suffered an ugly suspense. What would she say? Would she speak to him at all? Phrases that Sylvia might have used to her flashed through his mind; then he saw her smile as usual. She held out her hand. The warmth of her fingers seemed to reach his mind, making it less unyielding. The fancy put him on his guard.

      "I know you passed," she said.

      He walked with her across the narrow yard to the porch.

      "I think so, to-day."

      She paused with her foot on the lower step. The light from the corner disclosed her face, puzzled and undecided; and his uneasiness returned.

      "I am just returning this," she said, holding up a book. "I'd be glad to drop you at your lodging – "

      "I'll wait."

      While she was inside he paced the sidewalk. There had been a question in her face, but not the vital one, which, indeed, she wouldn't have troubled to ask. Sylvia had not recognized him, or, recognizing him, had failed to give him away.

      Betty came gracefully down the steps, and George followed her into the pleasant obscurity of the automobile. He could scarcely see her white figure, but he became aware again of the delightful and singular perfume of her tawny hair. If Sylvia had spoken he never could have sat so close to her. He had no business, anyway —

      She snapped on the light. She laughed.

      "I said you were bound to meet Lambert Planter."

      He had started on false ground. At any moment the ground might give way.

      "If I wasn't quite honest about that the other morning," he said, "it was because I had met Lambert Planter, but under circumstances I wanted to forget."

      "I'm sorry," she said, softly, "that I reminded you; but he seemed glad to see you this morning. It is all right now, isn't it?"

      "Yes," he answered, doubtfully.

      That thrilling quality of her voice became more pronounced.

      "I'm glad. For he's a good friend to have. He's a very real person; I mean, a man who's likely to do big things, don't you think?"

      "Yes," he said again.

      Why was he conscious of resentment? Why did he ask himself quickly if Lambert thought of her with equal benevolence? He pulled himself up short. What earthly business was it of his what Betty Alston and Lambert Planter thought of each other? But he regretted the briefness of his companionship with Betty in the unaccustomed luxury of the car. It surrounded him with a settled and congenial atmosphere; it lessened, after the first moments, the sharp taste of the ambition to which he had condemned himself.

      "Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in. Dear old Squibs told me so."

      He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her, said good-night, and turned resolutely away.

      It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.

      Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so differently?

      The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to himself.

      "Because she doesn't know."

      He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He would detach himself from the landscape