Scattered lines of people hurrying to the Stadium; hundreds and hundreds of girls in all colours of organdy, with organdy hats—and spotless white slippers. Complacent mothers; excited fathers, trying not to look too proud; nondescript and sometimes awful people who would be lumped under the gross head, Relations; all urging their way to the Stadium. It seemed as if the world was at Harvard Class Day—the world, and its Relations. As they were led to their cold stone seats by a brick-cheeked youth who hid his admiration beneath a mask of “Harvard indifference,” a treble voice lifted itself out of the crowd. “Why, Joy Nelson! Yes, it is! Hullo, Joy! It’s me—see?” It was Betty Grey, in black and white organdy combined in sophisticated lines that made her look all of eighteen—Betty Grey, who threw herself over to where Joy and Félicie were installing themselves, and hung a charming wedge between two surging lines of people anxious to get to their places. “I haven’t seen you for such _ages_, I thought you were dead or something! You know, how you always think people are dead or something, when you don’t see them!” A struggle ensued behind, which failed to dislodge her while she met Félicie. “People seem to be pushing me, but they don’t mean it—I always say, judge a crowd kindly—this is my first Class Day, and I’m terribly excited! Have you been singing just lots this year?” “Just lots,” Joy repeated gravely. “What have you been doing? And how is—everybody?” “Oh, Grant’s all right. I haven’t done anything but flunk English History—there’s a girl visiting us who knows you and your cousin—oh dear, it feels as if everyone in the world was pushing me! I’ll see you later, what spread are you going to?” And Betty Grey was swirled along out of sight. “They’re starting,” said Félicie. “Look, all the classes march in.” It was at that moment when Félicie forgot to look at the sky, that the rain came down—and in no pathetic Boston drizzle; it gave itself out in the quantities it had been holding back all day, generously making up for lost time. All over the Stadium people stood up and umbrellas snapped open, spreading their inky mushroom caps over slim stems of organdy. “It’ll only last a minute,” said someone, and the word was passed along until the mushrooms bobbed to the repetition: “Only a minute—only a minute!” “It’s going to be more than a minute,” said Joy, whose feet were getting wet. “I’m going out until it stops.” “Through all that crowd! I’d rather sit here, as long as we have umbrellas.”