There came Thurlow, who, as a chum of Shackleford, wished to protest to Sylvia against the harm she was doing to the latter’s candidacy, and to all that was best in Harvard’s social life. There came Jackson, who, as van Tuiver’s best friend, painted a distressful picture of the collapse of his prestige. There came Harmon, also pledged to plead the cause of “Auburn Street,” but proving a poor ambassador on account of his selfish weakness. He spoke of van Tuiver’s pitiful state, but a very little contriving on Sylvia’s part sufficed to bring him to his knees, beseeching her to make him the happiest man in the world. Sylvia rather liked Harmon; she was grateful to him for having been the first man at Harvard to fall in love with her, thus helping her over a time of great self-distrust. He made his offer with more eloquence than one would have expected from a reserved upper-class club man; and Sylvia gently parried his advances, and wiped away one or two tears of genuine sympathy, and promised to be a sister to him in the most orthodox old Southern style. And then came “Tubby” Bates. “Tubby” did not ask her to marry him, but he made her several speeches which were even more pleasant to hear. She had finished her packing, and had on her gray traveling dress when he called. He stood in the middle of the floor, gazing at her approvingly, his round face beaming and his eyes twinkling with fun. “Oh, what a stir in the frog-pond we’ve made!” he exclaimed. “And now you’re running off and leaving me to face the racket alone!” “What in the world have _you_ to do with it?” she asked. “Me? Doesn’t everybody know that it was I who set you on van Tuiver? Didn’t I bring you together at that fatal dance? And now all the big guns in the college are aiming murder at me!” The other laughed. “Surely, Mr. Bates, your social position can stand a strain!” He laughed in return, but suddenly became serious. He said: “I wouldn’t care anyhow. Honest to God, Miss Castleman! There’s something I wanted to say to you—I have to thank you for teaching me a lesson.” “A lesson?” “You know, we don’t live in such a lovely world—and I’m afraid I’ve got to be cynical. But you’ve made me ashamed of myself, and I want to tell you. It’s something I shall never forget; it may sound melodramatic—but I shall always think better of women for what you’ve done.” She looked at him and grew serious. “Tell me, just what have I done that seems so extraordinary to you? I haven’t felt a bit heroic.” “I’ll answer you straight. You turned down van Tuiver and his money!” “And does that really surprise you so?” she asked. “I can only tell you that I didn’t believe there was a woman in America who’d do it. I can tell you also that van Tuiver didn’t believe it!” Sylvia could not help laughing. “But, really, Mr. Bates, how could you expect so badly of me—that I’d sell my soul for luxury?”