After a good deal of thinking, they returned from a heavy performance at Conover's, laden with a large creamcake, a half dozen eclairs, a box of Huyler's and two pounds of Turkish paste, after placing an order for tinned meats, cheese, saltines and root-beer. "I say, this sort of removes the lurking danger, doesn't it?" said Hippo, searching in his pocket for the last half-dollar. "We'll store the grub in our rooms," said Snorky solemnly, "and then there won't be any danger at all." "Oh, thank you, kind sir," said the irrepressible Hippo, and only the soothing presence of the layer cake against his breast kept Snorky from a mood of wrath. "If you've got to mother that little squirt," said Snorky wrathfully, once they had returned to their room, "you'll have your hands full, that's all I wish to remark. A fresher, nervier little nuisance--" "Nuisance is going to get a lot of mothering," said Skippy with a far-off look in his eyes. "But remember, old dear, that's why we're here. That's why the faculty invites us to Lawrenceville." "Well," said Snorky as he stowed away the purchases and arranged the eclairs on the tea-table, "if we can keep him away from Doc Macnooder, there's going to be a few compensations." "Nuisance will neither be affectionate nor familiar by this time to-morrow," said Skippy grinding his teeth. "Cheese it! Hide the towels--here they come!" A knock and then the voice of Hippo in flippant familiarity: "All right, Skippy, we're good looking. Open up." Skippy looked at Snorky and swallowed hard while his right arm worked convulsively. "Come in," he said with an effort. The door opened and Miss Potterman triumphantly entered his life. Mrs. Potterman was there and Hippo with his impertinent smirk but neither Skippy nor Snorky saw anything else but that wonderful vision. Something unbelievable had suddenly stepped out of their favorite Gibson picture and was advancing in a halo. Violets and daffodils began to sprout from the carpet and birds sang in the window frames. It was instantaneous and it was terrific. CHAPTER XXXIX LOVE PLUS HIPPO JUST as there are professional conversationalists and professional sponges, Miss Potterman was a professional beauty. There was nothing accidental or temporary about her. She was complete, perfect, and she knew her loveliness. After five years' triumphant progress in society she was accustomed to the petrifying effect of her sudden presence on a beauty-worshipping sex. She did not walk as other mortals walk, but floated in fragrantly and Skippy stood staring rock-still, as though Hippo had flashed the head of Medusa. None of which by the way was lost on the keenly observant Hippo. "I beg pardon, I'm Skippy," he said shaking himself. "Mr. Bedelle, isn't it?" said Miss Potterman in the tones that angels are supposed to employ.