“Ah,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “that is something I have often talked about with Southern people. The reason is that in the South you have a social class which is definitely separated by color, and which never thinks of crossing the line. But in the North, my dear, our servants look like us, and it’s not quite so simple drawing the line.” “Oh, but I’m not talking of servants, Mrs. Winthrop. I mean here, within the boundaries of a college class. Your servants do not go to college.” The other laughed. “But they do,” she said. “Oh, surely not!” “It costs a hundred and fifty dollars a year to go to Harvard. Any man can come, black or white, who can borrow the money. He may come, and earn his living while he’s here by tending furnaces. As a matter of fact, there’s a man in the class with Douglas van Tuiver whose father is a butler.” “You don’t mean it!” exclaimed Sylvia. “A man,” said Mrs. Winthrop, “named Firmin.” Sylvia was aghast. “Tom Firmin!” “Yes. Have you heard of him before?” She answered in a faint voice, “Yes,” and then was silent. “You see, my dear,” said the other, gently, “why we are conscious of our class lines in the North!” § 20 Sylvia judged that it was about time for the cat to come out of the bag. And now she observed him emerging—with a grave and stately tread, as became a feline of New England traditions. Said Mrs. Winthrop: “I have just had a talk with Douglas van Tuiver. Of course, you must know, Sylvia, that he has conceived an intense admiration for you. And you must know that when a man so intensely admires a woman, she has a great influence upon him—an influence which she can use either for good or for evil.” “Yes, Mrs. Winthrop,” said Sylvia. “I gather that his admiration for you is—is not entirely reciprocated, Sylvia.” “Er—no,” said the girl, “not entirely.” “He has come to me in great distress. You have criticized him, and he has felt your disapproval keenly. I won’t need to repeat what he said—no doubt you understand. The point is that you have brought Douglas to a state of distraction; he wants to please you, and he doesn’t know how to do it. You have put ideas into his head—really, Sylvia, you will ruin the man—you will utterly destroy him. I cannot but feel that you have acted without fully realizing the gravity of the situation—the full import of the demands you have made upon him.” “Really,” protested Sylvia, “I have made no demands upon him.” “Not formally, perhaps. But you must understand, the man is beside himself, and he takes them as demands.” There was an awkward silence. “I have tried earnestly to avoid Mr. van Tuiver,” said Sylvia. “I would prefer never to see him again.”