“Yes, I know Fields,” he said, restraining a panic-stricken impulse to dart away in the crowd. “I felt that you did--something told me. He’s a dear boy, isn’t he?” “He’s a very good fellow,” replied Beverly. “Ah, I like that,” she said heartily, straightening her dumpy shoulders and expanding her chest with enthusiasm. “I love the way you great, loyal college men stand up for each other. It’s beautiful. Now I must find him,” she went on rapidly, with a keen sense of opportunity, “and tell him I’m here--give myself over to him. He lives--where does he live?” For his own sake, Beverly would have cheerfully told her that he didn’t know, or that Billy had moved, or that he didn’t have a room at all; but he hesitated to separate Billy from his family, when a word might unite them, so he said:-- “He rooms in Claverly Hall; but I doubt if you can find him there now.” “But we can try,” she exclaimed with eager optimism. “Which is Claverly?” she looked blandly up and down the Yard. “It isn’t here; it’s down there on Mt. Auburn Street.” Beverly indicated the direction. “Not on the ‘campus’? Oh, dear!” said Billy’s cousin. There was dismay in her tone and on her broad disc of a face. “No; but it’s very easy to find. Anybody will show you,” Beverly answered. He thought it was an excellent moment in which to bow himself away. “Anybody?” she said softly, transfixing him with one of her oblique leers. She was a terribly arch woman. Her kinship with Fields, and the assumable respectability that went with it, together with her abandoned trust in Harvard chivalry, didn’t make her any less awful in Beverly’s eyes. They were merely the complement of her already well-developed genius for imposition; they made her impossible to evade,--a something inevitable. “I’m sure he won’t be there now,” repeated Beverly, helplessly. “We’re all so busy to-day; we haven’t a moment to ourselves,” he added furtively. “Yes, yes, I know,” assented Billy’s cousin; “but it’s my only way to find him before evening. I can leave my card and arrange a rendezvous. I wouldn’t interfere with his plans for the world; I have a horror of being a burden. I’m such a perfectly independent little body!” She arose and gave Beverly the fan with the gesture of a lady fair bestowing her colours upon a knight who yearned. “Is it far?” she asked. “No,” answered Beverly, shortly. “It isn’t far.” “Then let us saunter--oh, so slowly--and drink it in.” She closed her eyes and breathed as one overcome by the sensuous beauty of the surroundings. “I’m afraid I shall have to hurry,” said the senior, with unmistakable decision. He looked at his watch ostentatiously. “I’m going away, and I have to pack.” She ignored the suggestion. “Which of these mellow, world-old buildings do you live in?” she asked dreamily, stopping in the path. “I don’t live in any of them,” said Beverly. He was extremely angry. “Recluse,” she murmured.