“Well,” said the other, “Frank would naturally stand up for him. I suppose he’s trying to keep him straight.” There was a silence. Then suddenly Sylvia asked, “Harley, did you ever meet Douglas van Tuiver?” “No!” replied Harley. “Why do you ask?” “Nothing—only I heard of him, and I was thinking perhaps he’d be a good man to help you.” “Small doubt of that,” said the boy, with a laugh. “But it might be difficult to meet him.” “Why?” “Well, he picks the people he meets. And he doesn’t come to public affairs.” “Stop and think a minute. Is there nobody who might know him?” “Why—there’s Mrs. Winthrop.” “He goes there?” “They’re great chums, I understand. I could get her to invite you.” But Sylvia, after a moment’s thought, shook her head. “No,” she said, “I think I’ll let him take me to her.” “By Jove!” laughed Harley. “That’s cool!” And then he asked, curiously, “What makes you pick him out?” “I don’t know,” said Sylvia. “I find myself thinking about him. You see, I meet men like Mr. Harmon and the others last night—they’re all obvious. I’ve known them by the dozen before, and I can always tell what they’ll say. But this man sounds as if he might be different. “Humph!” said Harley. “I wish you could get a chance! But I fear you’d find him a difficult proposition. Girls must be forever throwing themselves at his head—” “Yes,” said Sylvia. “But I wouldn’t make that mistake.” Then, after a pause, she added, “I think it might be good for him, too. I might make a man of him!” § 4 There was a Senior named Thurlow, whom Sylvia had met at the “Glee Club” affair, and who, after judicious approach through Harley and Aunt Varina, had secured her promise to come to tea in his rooms. So she saw one of the dormitories on Auburn Street, having such modern conveniences as “buttons,” a squash court, and a white marble swimming pool—with a lounging room at one end, and easy chairs from which to watch one’s fellow mermen at play. Thurlow showed her about his own apartments, equipped with that kind of simplicity that is so notoriously expensive. He showed her his tennis cups and rowing trophies, talking most interestingly about the wonderful modern art, the pulling of an oar—in which there are no less than seventy errors a man can commit in the “catch,” and a hundred-and-seventy in the “stroke.” Thurlow, it appeared, must have committed several in last year’s race, for he had snapped his oar, and only saved the day by jumping overboard, being picked up in a state of collapse, and reported as drowned in the first newspaper extras.