Mrs. Morris pushed forward a chair and Tom sat down, holding his hat very firmly and finding nothing to say just then. Sidney was already undoing the package, frankly eager. Mrs. Morris leaned above him smilingly. Tom’s eyes wandered about the room. It was certainly jolly. He had never seen anything at all like it, had never even imagined that such a room could exist. There were two recessed windows with wide, comfortable seats beneath them and low book-cases at each side. (Just the place, Tom thought, to curl up and read.) The walls were papered in grey and the big rug that not quite covered the floor was grey, too, with a broad border of dark blue. The bed, on which the clothes were neatly and invitingly turned down, was a sort of a grey as well, and the silken coverlid that lay across the foot was grey and blue. Even the furniture and the window curtains repeated the colours. A small desk near the chair in which the occupant of the splendid apartment was seated held books and papers and writing materials and a green-shaded electric light that could be twisted about in any direction and to any height. On the walls hung a few plainly-framed pictures, while above the fireplace, in which a coal fire glowed cosily, were two gaily-hued posters, a pair of fencing foils, crossed under a mask, and a yard-long photograph of a football game in progress. Beneath that, on the mantel, was a long row of photographs. Tom’s examination, a little envious by now, was interrupted by Sidney. “I say, Mumsie, they’re peaches! Gee, I don’t know which pair I want. What do you say, Tom?” “I--I guess I wouldn’t know which to take if it was me,” answered Tom shyly. “They’re both dandy, aren’t they?” “Know anything about these tubular ones?” asked Sidney. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair before.” “They’re new,” said Tom. “They look pretty strong, though.” “They’ve got a dandy edge. I sort of think I’ll take these, Mumsie. Gee, I wish I could try them to-morrow! You skate, don’t you, Tom?” “Not very well.” “Ever play hockey?” Tom shook his head. “Not real hockey, I guess. We kids used to knock a hard rubber ball or a hunk of wood around on the ice. We had goal posts, too, but I suppose real hockey is--is scientific, isn’t it?”