“The truth is,” she said, “I’ve changed my mind about the whole matter. I don’t care to have anything to do with the man.” “But why not?” asked Harley, in amazement. “Because—I don’t think that poor people like us have any right to. We can’t meet him and keep our self-respect.” “Great God, girl! Aren’t we van Tuiver’s social equals.” “We think we are, but he doesn’t; and his view prevails. When you came up here and fell in love with a girl in his set, you found that his view prevailed. And look what you did last night! Don’t you see the degradation—simply to be near such a man?” “That’s all very well,” objected Harley, “but can I keep van Tuiver from coming to Harvard?” “No, you can’t; but you can help to keep him from having his way after he has got here. You can stand out against him and all that he represents.” There was a pause. Harley had nothing to say to that. Sylvia stood with her brows knitted in thought. “I’ve made up my mind,” she said, “there’s something very wrong about it all. The man has too much money. He has no right to have so much—certainly not unless he’s earned it.” Whereat her cousin exclaimed, “For God’s sake, Sylvia, you talk like an Anarchist!” § 11 A couple of days later came Mrs. Winthrop’s “Progressive Love” party. At this party there were twenty-four guests, twelve men and twelve women, appearing in purple silk dominoes and golden silk masks supplied by the hostess. Twelve short dances were followed by intermissions, during which the guests retired to cosy corners, and the men made ardent love to their unknown partners. “Tubby” Bates, of whom there was too much to be concealed by any domino, was appointed door-keeper, and it was his business to select the couples, so that each would have a new partner for every dance. At the end, every person voted for the most successful “lover” and also the worst, and there were prizes and “booby” prizes. Love-making, more or less disguised, being the principal occupation of men and women in the South, Sylvia counted herself an expert at this game. She had learned to assume a different personality, disguising her voice, and doing it quite naturally—not by the crude method of putting a button under her tongue. She took her seat after the first dance, perfectly mistress of herself and pleasantly thrilled with curiosity. All of the “younger set” at home had made love to her in earnest, and their methods were an oft-told tale. But how would these strange men of Harvard play the game? The tall domino at her side was in no hurry to begin. He sat very stiff and straight upon the velvet cushions; and finally it came to Sylvia that he was suffering from embarrassment. She leaned towards him, so as to display “a more coming-on disposition.” “Sir,” she whispered, “faint heart ne’er won fair lady.” The tall domino considered this in silence. “You’ll have to excuse me,” he said, “I never played this game before.”