“‘No,’ she whispered; ‘nobody’s been in but Mis’ Taylor and Mis’ Buckson and Mis’ Myles. They come at two,’--it was then after five,--‘and the Regent. Mr. Wellington was a real quiet young man. He didn’t have much company. He stayed in his room nights--mostly.’ She stuck on ‘mostly’ as a sort of afterthought, and repeated it; the old fool had a passion for accuracy of a vague, unimportant kind that almost drove me crazy. I asked her if any one else roomed in the house. I knew he must have known them if there did; no matter how objectionable people are at college, if they room near you, you can’t help borrowing matches from them--I’ve made lots of acquaintances borrowing matches. But no one lived there except two law students, ‘real nice gentlemen, _real_ nice,’ they were, and they weren’t there very much. Nate asked her when the funeral was to be, which was the most sensible thing he could have done; for she took a telegram from her pocket, and said,-- “‘His mother’s coming to-night. She was in New York State when he passed away. They wa’n’t able to get her till this afternoon.’ Then Nate and I left her, and I don’t know why,--it wasn’t idle curiosity,--but we went up to Wellington’s rooms. “They were bully rooms. You can tell a lot about a man from his room here. Wellington had no end of really good things: rugs and books,--the Edinburgh Stevenson, and that edition of Balzac we have at home,--and ever so many Braun photographs--not the every day ones, but portraits and things that you felt he’d picked up abroad, because he happened to like them. And on the table--he had a corking big oak table that filled up one end of the room--his note-books and scratch block were lying open, just the way he’d left them when he stopped grinding for the exams. And there was a letter without a stamp, addressed to his mother, and a little picture of his mother, with ‘For Hugo’ written on the back. Then I got to thinking of his mother, and got her mixed up with you somehow or other. I don’t know just how it was, but you seemed to change places; I couldn’t see you apart for any length of time, and I thought of you arriving at the Park Square station all alone, and trying to get a cab in the wet, and having to pay the man anything he asked you, until I was almost crying, and told Nate that some one ought to be there to meet you--Mrs. Wellington, I mean. Nate agreed with me, and began to look panicky, because he knew I meant him. He really ought to have gone--it was his place. But I knew how he felt. He kept insisting that I could do the thing much better than he could; and it ended by my getting a carriage at about eight or nine o’clock, and splashing into town.