"Oliver Vars," I returned, "I've brought seventy-five dollars down here in this bag for you, and you had better stop talking like that to me. If it wasn't for me and my impropriety, you'd be working in the mills, let me tell you. And I don't know but what it would be better. If Alec knew what you'd done--if Tom knew--" Oliver's attitude changed immediately. "Oh, I know," he interrupted. "It's been bully of you, Bobbie. I tell you I appreciate it. I suppose you had a hard time squeezing even such an amount out of old Al, and just now too, when business is so rotten. But I'll pay you back some day, you'll see. You've helped me out of a devil of a scrape. I'm going to have you down to a game or a tea soon." "There's a game this afternoon!" I exclaimed. "Oh, Oliver--I've never seen a football game." My brother frowned. "I'm more than sorry, but I'm taking some one this afternoon. Malcolm and I, two other fellows and four girls, a party of eight of us, are all going together." "Couldn't I sit alone somewhere, off in a corner? I wouldn't mind a bit. I want to see the crowds and be able to say that I have been. Oh, I'd love to hear the cheering. You could call for me afterward, and--" "Oh, no, Lucy; oh, no. That's out of the question. Why even if I could get a ticket, which I can't, it wouldn't do. You don't understand in the least." There was something about the way Oliver glanced at my old rusty laced boots that made me say fiercely, "I don't suppose I'm dressed well enough!" "Oh, it isn't that--not at all," he assured me, and suddenly I felt that it was. "Of course it isn't, though the girls do put on the best things they have. It's simply that no girl ever goes alone to a game." "Well, then, here's the money," I said in a hard voice. "Say, Bobbie, I'm awfully sorry. If you only had let me know. If you only--" "Oh, never mind," I interrupted. A young man in a grey sweater entered the store. Oliver glanced around at him, then flushed and finally raised his cap. The young man returned the bow generously. If I had been less sensitive I wouldn't have noticed how Oliver stood so as to shield me from the young man's gaze. If I hadn't walked that three blocks and a half with that young god Blanchard, whoever he was, I wouldn't have minded Oliver's half-apologetic bow. Mr. Blanchard hadn't been ashamed of me; _he_ hadn't hidden me; _he_ hadn't flushed when he met his friends. I wanted to get away from Oliver as soon as I could. I wanted to go home. "Well, I might as well be starting along," I said. "I found my way down here without any trouble, and I guess I'll get home all right." "Say, Bobbie, I'm more than sorry. I wish I could put you safely on the Hilton train, but I've got to rush like mad as it is--change my clothes, get some food, and call for Miss Beresford, all before two o'clock. So if you're sure--" "I am," I tucked in. "I'll put you on the electric car. Say--" his face brightened, "don't you want some hot chocolate?"