Pretty much every one of importance in the class dropped in on him. The preliminary visiting period of the sophomore societies was nearly over. With the opening of the winter term the hold-offs and elections would begin. He understood that those who were uncertain wished the advantage of being seen in his company--that his, in fact, was now the "right" crowd. He intended to call on several men who interested him: Brockhurst, who had made his appearance with a story in the _Lit_ which announced him as a possible future chairman; Gimbel, about whose opinions and sincerity he was in doubt; and, above all, Regan, who genuinely attracted him. But, somehow, having now nothing to do, his afternoons and evenings seemed always filled, and he continually postponed until the morrow what suggested itself during the day. Besides, there was a complacent delight in being his own master again and of looking forward to such a period of independent languor. The first discordant note to intrude itself upon this ideal was a remark of Le Baron's during one of the evening visits. These embassies were always conducted with punctiliousness and gravity. The inquisitorial sophomores arrived about eight o'clock in groups of three and four. As McCarthy was the object of attention from a different society, Stover, when the former's inspectors arrived, shook hands gravely, and shortly discovered that he had a letter to post at the corner. When the committee on Stover appeared trimly at the door, McCarthy rose at once to return a hypothetical book, after which the conversation began with about as much spontaneity and zest as would be permitted to a board of alienists sitting in judgment on a victim. The sophomores were embarrassed with their own impromptu dignity, and the freshmen at the constraint of their superiors. On one such occasion, after the committee of four had spent fifteen minutes in the grave discussion of a kindergarten topic, and had filed out with funereal solemnity, Le Baron returned for a more intimate conversation. Since the night of his introduction to college, Stover had had only occasional glimpses of Le Baron. True, he was generally of the visiting committee that called every other night for perfunctory inspection, but through it all the sophomore had adopted an attitude of almost defensive aloofness and impartiality. "I want to talk over some of the men in the class," said Le Baron, falling into an arm-chair and picking up a pipe, while his manner changed to naturalness and equality. Stover understood at once that the attitude was a notice served on him of the security of his own position. "Dink, I want to know your opinion. What do you think of Brockhurst, for instance?" "Brockhurst? Why, I hardly know him." "Is he liked?" "Why, yes." "Who are his friends?" Stover thought a moment. "Why, I think he rather keeps to himself. He strikes me as being--well, a little undeveloped--rather shy." "Do you like him? "I do." "And Schley?"