"Mrs. Everty's unmistakably charming," said he, "and we don't know any real harm of her, but if I were Ap-Jenkyns I should not let my wife be quite her bosom companion. As to Todhetley, I think he's a gone calf." Whitney came to our room as I got in. He had been invited to the luncheon by Mrs. Everty, but excused himself, and she asked Fred Temple in his place. "Well, Johnny, how did it go off?" "Oh, pretty well. Lobster-salad and other good things. Why did not you go?" "Where's Tod?" he rejoined, not answering the question. "Out on a driving-party. Sophie Chalk and the Ap-Jenkynses." Whitney whistled through the verse of an old song: "Froggy would a-wooing go." "I say, Johnny," he said presently, "you had better give Tod a hint to take care of himself. That thing will go too far if he does not look out." "As if Tod would mind me! Give him the hint yourself, Bill." "I said half a word to him this morning after chapel: he turned on me and accused me of being jealous." We both laughed. "I had a letter from home yesterday," Bill went on, "ordering me to keep clear of Madam Sophie." "No! Who from?" "The mother. And Miss Deveen, who is staying with them, put in a postscript." "How did they know Sophie Chalk was here?" "Through me. One wet afternoon I wrote a long epistle to Harry, telling him, amidst other items, that Sophie Chalk was here, turning some of our heads, especially Todhetley's. Harry, like a flat, let Helen get hold of the letter, and she read it aloud, pro bono publico. There was nothing in it that I might not have written to Helen herself; but Mr. Harry won't get another from me in a hurry. Sophie seems to have fallen to a discount with the mother and Miss Deveen." Bill Whitney did not know what I knew--the true story of the emeralds. "And that's why I did not go to the lunch to-day, Johnny. Who's this?" It was the scout. He came in to bring in a small parcel, daintily done up in white paper. "Something for you, sir," he said to me. "A boy has just left it." "It can't be for me--that I know of. It looks like wedding-cake." "Open it," said Bill. "Perhaps one of the grads has gone and got married." We opened it together, laughing. A tiny paste-board box loomed out with a jeweller's name on it; inside it was a chased gold cross, attached to a slight gold chain. "It's a mistake, Bill. I'll do it up again." Tod came back in time for dinner. Seeing the little parcel on the mantelshelf, he asked what it was. So I told him--something that the jeweller's shop must have sent to our room by mistake. Upon that, he tore the paper open; called the shop people hard names for sending it into college, and put the box in his pocket. Which showed that it was for him.