“About that time, I think. I don't remember exactly. Upon my word, Mr. Blair, you have taken up history with true American efficiency! I do wish that our young men had the same zeal. I am happy to say, however, that I am expecting a young cleric this evening, a protege of the Bishop of Oxford, who is, I believe, also interested in these matters.” Blair's heart sank, but he had no time to ponder, for at this moment Mrs. Kent and Kathleen came in. “My dear, this is Mr. Blair, Joe's friend from Oxford. We are great cronies already. My wife, Mr. Blair, and my daughter Kathleen.” The young Oxonian suffered one of the most severe heart contusions known in the history of the human race. It was a positive vertigo of admiration. This was indeed the creature he had seen on the railway platform: a dazzling blend of girl and woman. The grotesque appellation “flapper” fled from his mind. Her thick, dark hair was drawn smoothly across her head and piled at the back in a heavenly coil. Her clear gray eyes, under rich brown brows, were cool, laughing, and self-possessed. She was that most adorable of creatures, the tweenie, between girl and woman, with the magic of both and the weaknesses of neither. Blair could not have said how she was dressed. He saw only the arch face, the intoxicating clearness of her skin, the steady, friendly gaze. “How do you do,” he said, and remembering English reticence, hesitated to put out his hand; then cursed himself for not having done so. Kathleen smiled, and murmured, “How do you do.” “I'm very glad to see you,” said Mrs. Kent. “Do tell us what that crazy Joe has been up to. Did Mr. Kent tell you we've had three telegrams from her?” Blair felt the room twirl under his feet. How one little pronoun can destroy a man! In his agony he saw Mrs. Kent and Kathleen sit down on the big couch, and painfully found his way to a chair. “I--I beg your pardon?” he stammered. “I didn't just catch--” “The mad girl has sent us three telegrams,” said Mrs. Kent, “in which there was only one sensible thing, the reference to yourself. Her other remarks, about cooks and soccer and injured limbs, were quite over our heads.” With a dull sense of pain Blair felt Kathleen's bright eyes on him. “Yes, Mr. Blair, is she ragging us? Or have the girls at Maggie Hall taken up soccer?” said a clear voice, every syllable of which seemed so precious and girlish and quaintly English that he could have clapped his hands. He blessed her for the clue. “Maggie Hall!”--in other words, Lady Margaret Hall, one of the women's colleges at Oxford. So “Joe” was (in American parlance) a “co-ed!” “Why--er--I believe they _have_ been playing a little,” he said desperately. “I think he--er--something was said about having his--hum--her--arm--hurt in a rough game.” “Her leg, too,” said Mr. Kent. “In my time, young girls didn't send telegrams about their legs. In fact, they didn't send telegrams at all.”