Wackley’s easy and cynical assumption that the subject of the sketch would be “crazy for publicity” recalled itself to Jeremy. He swore beneath his breath. “When did you see Eli? “This morning. At the hospital.” “The hospital! Is he injured that badly?” “No. You had not heard? It is Mr. Galpin, a friend of Eli’s--who stood by him.” “Andy Galpin! How bad is it?” “Much worse than they supposed. He will be nearly blind in one eye.” “Good Lord!” “And is he a friend of yours, also; Mr. Galpin?” “Andy? Yes; of course he is.” “But you made no inquiry about him.” “I did n’t know.” Her eyes, steady and deep-lighted, still did not judge him, still pathetically wondered at him. “Marcia!” he broke out. “I haven’t been able to think of anything but you. I have n’t had anything in my heart--” “Please!” He stopped, appealing to her with his look. “I think you have to think of Eli Wade.” Jeremy winced and was silent. Their car pulled up at the Pritchard gate. She got out, but did not ask him to come in. “The worst of it is that it’s hurt you,” he muttered. “I did n’t know that you cared so much about him.” “It was not he that I cared so much about,” returned Marcia steadily. “It was you.” She turned and passed into the house. Try as he might, on his way to the hospital to see Andrew Galpin, Jeremy could derive from that low-toned avowal neither hope nor comfort for a sick heart and a grilling conscience. The doctors would not let him see Galpin. As by tradition bound, his “story” of the golf match focused on the one and unique girl-player on the team. She was the “human interest” center. So skillfully did he skirt the edge of her bad play that only an analysis of the score would apprise the reader of the partial failure. Her good shots were described in glowing terms. To her, the casual reader would have supposed, belonged the chief credit on Old Central’s side; and the copy-reader, who was no golfer, in good faith headed it “Miss Ames Gains Tie for O. C.”; the final team score having also been all even, though it should have been Old Central’s victory had No. 4 played up to her standard. The writing of the article cheered up the writer notably. Here was no wounding word or acid-bitten phrase. There was only the clear purpose to please. Again Jeremy had been caught and carried in the whirl of his semi-creative enthusiasm.