And they really must have talked quite a good deal, for when the last bell sounded for all the visitors to go and the driver of the big college sleigh (which was really an omnibus on runners) was shouting himself hoarse in the “centre” and in nervous asides assuring the excited and aggrieved passengers already assembled and waiting that they would all be late for the last train that night if the remaining few did not hurry up--while all of this was going on, the Harvard man was still sitting with her on the pedestal of a plaster statue in a darkened corner of a corridor, assuring her that they could be married just as soon as the finals were over, and that though he was sure to be made a marshal he would not wait for Class Day for anything which he could then think of under the sun, and that instead of sending out invitations to a spread in Beck, he would give his friends a delightful shock by substituting his wedding cards for them, and while the other fellows were working like beavers at the Tree, or filling dance cards for their friends, or wearing themselves to shreds dancing with their friends’ friends, they could be in a boat half-way over to the other side. And she was saying she didn’t think she would come back after Christmas so as to have plenty of time to get her gowns and things ready, and that she did not think she was really and truly fitted for college life; which he interrupted to assure her that he was certain she already knew vastly more than he did, and that he would telegraph her mother and father about the whole thing before he slept, and that if the answer was favorable he would send her some flowers the next day as a token. And then when the coachman’s patience had quite given out and they heard the sleigh go dashing away from under the _porte-cochère_, before she could realize it he had kissed her once quickly and jumped down the steps four at a time, and was out of the door tearing after the vanishing coach. The next afternoon Miss Wright received an enormous box full of Mabel Morrison roses, and her tailor-made friend, not understanding the significance of the flowers, thought it was rather shabby on her part not to offer her some. About the same time of day the Harvard man sent a long and explicit telegram to the agent of the Cunard Line for the very best stateroom on a steamer sailing on or about the 20th of the next June, and blushed boyishly and then laughed a little at its “previousness,” as he signed the application for “Mr. and Mrs. Roger Pervere, New York,” six months before his wedding-day. AN EPISODE