No one stayed long, and by six o’clock the club, except for Beverly and the sleeping Lauriston, was again deserted. When the steward came in to draw the curtains and turn on the lights, Lauriston awoke and asked vaguely if it was time to go to Beck. “I suppose so,” answered Beverly. “Everybody seems to have gone somewhere.” “Then I must go too,” mused Lauriston, fumbling sleepily at his disordered necktie, and making a feeble attempt to smooth his hair. “Oh, I wouldn’t run away and leave me,” suggested Beverly, “I’m all alone.” He wasn’t in the least anxious for Lauriston’s society, but for the public good he was willing to endure it. Lauriston’s nap hadn’t proved as beneficial as it might have; the fellow was in no condition to go to Beck and talk to people. “Sorry, old man. Can’t stay. Got to find my mothers and sisters, and give them ‘Morial tickets.” He searched his pockets, and drew out an envelope. Then he arose laboriously from the divan, and, standing before Beverly, said something that sounded like “Delookawrite.” Beverly adjusted his glasses:-- “No, candidly, you don’t look all right,” he declared, “and if you’re going out to hunt for your mother and sisters, I sincerely trust you won’t find them.” Lauriston stared stupidly at the tickets in his hand. “Got to havvem. Promised,” he muttered. Beverly gently extracted the tickets from his fingers. “I’ll see that they get them,” he said. He had some difficulty in persuading Lauriston that he knew Mrs. Lauriston intimately, and would have no trouble in finding her; for the fellow insisted that his mother was a most reserved woman whom very few people knew intimately. “She’s a reserved woman without a parasol,” he said by way of identification, when he finally allowed Beverly to depart with the tickets. The crowd on the lawn at Beck was less objectionable to Beverly, only because it was unhoused. He stopped at the top of the steps leading down to the little enclosure packed with white frocks and the startling flora and fauna of summer millinery. It wasn’t easy to recognise any one in the soft half light of the lanterns swinging in long festoons overhead; and it took him some time to discover Mrs. Lauriston and the girls seated around a table very near him at the foot of the steps on which he was standing. They had seen him the moment he appeared. The Millstone, sitting just behind them at the next table, with two freshmen,--distant cousins of Billy’s,--also saw him. “So you decided not to catch the train,” said Mrs. Lauriston when Beverly went down to her. “It’s harder to tear one’s self away from Class Day than I thought,” he said, feelingly, for he had just caught sight of Cousin Marguerite. But he made Mrs. Lauriston a nice little bow as he spoke.