“I came because you called me,” said Beverly, bluntly. “Thank you, no, I prefer to stand; I can only stay a moment.” He couldn’t bring himself to the point of being deliberately rude to any woman,--much less to a cousin of Billy’s. But he was very much annoyed at this fatuous bore, and couldn’t help showing it. His manner was decidedly icy. Whether the Millstone realised that he was thoroughly in earnest when he declared he couldn’t stay, or whether Class Day had really been too much for her, Beverly couldn’t make up his mind until afterwards; at any rate Cousin Marguerite suddenly let fall her fan, gave a little gasp, and proceeded to faint. Beverly sprang forward to prevent the rickety chair on which she sat from upsetting, and, this done, he looked helplessly about, as if for suggestions. He had a hazy idea that he ought to do something to her hands and feet, and pour water down the front of her dress; he had once seen that done with success. But Cousin Marguerite’s feet were down in the grass under the table somewhere; her hands too seemed rather inaccessible,--she had fallen forward and hidden them. If he should leave her to go for a glass of water, she would undoubtedly slide off her chair and get walked on. In his distress, Beverly called to Mrs. Lauriston. Mrs. Lauriston brought some apollinaris from her table, held it to the Millstone’s lips, and dabbed it on her temples with a handkerchief. “Oughtn’t I--oughtn’t you to ‘loosen something’?” asked Beverly, giving the crimson necktie a wrench. Cousin Marguerite’s eyelids fluttered with returning life. All she needed was air, she said, looking about her in bewilderment. “If Mr. Beverly will kindly take me to the street--to the open--How very stupid of me; I haven’t done it since I was a girl,” she added. So Beverly thanked Mrs. Lauriston hastily, and left the Beck spread with Cousin Marguerite on his arm. Outside she leaned against the great red letter-box on the corner, gasped a little, arranged her necktie and dried her temples. Then she passed her arm through Beverly’s again and started for Memorial--to find Billy. Consciousness had returned, but it had not brought to the Millstone strength enough to enable her to walk alone. There was simply no pretext on which Beverly could leave Billy’s cousin now. For although he was convinced that her indisposition was what he called “a cheap bluff at dying,” he couldn’t very well act on that assumption. He accepted the fact that he would have to stay by her, maddening as she was, until they found Billy. She was maddening. She insisted on going to Memorial by way of the Yard, and loitered shamelessly on the way--she said she felt strangely faint--to enjoy the crowd, the music, and the glow of the lanterns among the elms. She watched the dancing at Memorial until Beverly wondered audibly why Billy didn’t come; at which she announced blandly:--