Plainly, F. De Woolfe Lawrence was not preparing to follow in his father's steps. He had graduated with honors, and taken a prize essay, and was now a fully-fledged modern young man. He was fond of discoursing on abstruse subjects, he dabbled a little into art, wrote some mystical poems, tied a cravat beyond criticism, and wore faultless gloves and boots. His mother and Mrs. Eastman were extremely proud of him. His father wondered a little what the young man's future would be. "I have not decided upon a profession," he said, with a just perceptible but extremely stylish drawl. "The next thing is going abroad. I want at least two years of travel, and I should not wonder if I settled myself at some German or Parisian university. We, as a nation, are so sadly deficient in culture. Our country is crude, as I suppose all young countries must be." David Lawrence nodded slowly, and asked,-- "When did you think of going?" "I may as well go at once, and have it over," returned the young man, with the princely indifference he affected. His father did not dissent. As well in Europe as here, or anywhere. As for Jack, he was quite as much out of his reach as if the ocean already rolled between. They used to pass each other quietly, nodding if they came face to face, but often evading any kind of recognition. Was the old regard dead? Fred smiled rather pityingly on the boy who had been so blinded in his first love. "I used to think him such a hero, because he once thrashed a boy in my behalf," mused the young man. "And how I used to fly at the girls, who were always looking at the feet of clay my idol possessed! How I _did_ coax him to go to college!" and Fred gave a little rippling laugh. "I must admit that he has good common sense,--he has found his place, and keeps it. There could be nothing between us now, of course. My lines lie in such different ways." No moan for a lost ideal under all that self-complacency. Jack Darcy took the defection in good part. He did see the utter incongruity of keeping up even the semblance of the old dream. But, where Fred had made dozens of new friends, Jack had admitted no one to his vacant shrine. He liked, even now, to recall those old hours, so bright and gay with childish whims and frolics. And he did envy Fred, just a little, that ramble over Europe. Would it be a ramble? It was Jack's turn to smile. Would it not be bits and pictures seen through coach-windows, rather than getting close to Nature's heart? No, that would not suit _him_.