When Pellams slammed in and flopped disconsolately into a chair, Mason looked up, knowing that there was trouble somewhere. "What is it?" he asked. No answer. Jimmy rose, locked the door and closed the ventilator. Then he disposed himself on the lounge. "Tell your dad. Is it the girl?" Pellams's affirmative was put in language unrepeatable in a book for young persons. "Something gone wrong?" "Yes," _etc._ Jimmy wished to offer consolation. "Can I do anything?" "Yes," growled the man in a dress suit. "You can give me a sweater and take me to Mayfield!" Now Jimmy was a true friend. He would have gone anywhere for Pellams. When the dance music at Roble had ceased, and the quiet of the December night was broken by only the patter of raindrops and the sound of singing in the Mayfield distance, punctuated by sharp whoops, Jimmy had got Pellams back to the Knockery pretty well consoled. It might not have made much difference just then, even if the lover could have known that over in darkened Roble, Katharine Graham, who did not approve of love affairs, lay crying herself to sleep. Pellams rose late next day, and ate his lunch mournfully at the House. He was in an exaggerated state of repentance and resolve. After luncheon he made a sorrowful pilgrimage to the Quad. Here he learned that he had lost five hours and that the Glee Club would tour the South without him. Chastened in spirit, he asked for Katharine at Roble. She had gone to Mrs. Stillwell's on the Row. He went again at night, calling late that she might have her packing finished for the morning steamer. By diplomacy, arranged beforehand with the door-girl, he got her downstairs. There was only a trace of reserve in her manner when she told him that she had all her packing yet to do, and that she couldn't walk about the Quad even once; there was more than a trace of embarrassment about him when he pleaded something very important. "Perhaps I know what it is," said she. "More than likely you don't," he persisted; "anyhow, I deserve a chance to explain." Katharine went down the steps with him. "Well?" she said, on the walk outside. "What do you think I want to say?" He was not so brave now. "The same thing that I have in my mind, that our little arrangement would better end. I have got my very first condition through wasting time on a foolish josh, and I don't believe you've been doing good work lately." "They gave me two of 'em." "Indeed? Then Florence Meiggs was right, wasn't she?" "Dead right." Silence for awhile, then she said: "But you mustn't blame me. I did my best, and if we both failed it's proof positive that it has to end." Another pause, with the whirr of distant machinery breaking the stillness. No speech on either side until Pellams felt that he must say something or the blood in his throat would choke him. "Do--don't you really know what I wanted you out here for?" "Perhaps to insult me further. Pellams!" impetuously, "why did you do it?" "What? flunk?"