"I had them postpone our coffee," Thatcher explained as he presented Cosden to the Stevenses and to Hamlen, and Huntington to each. "We shall enjoy it the more for having you with us." Huntington found himself sitting between the daughter and Hamlen, while Cosden sat next to Mrs. Thatcher across the table. There had been no recognition, and Huntington was glad of it; he preferred to introduce the subject in his own way and at his own time. The girl, however, had already discovered a bond. "Aren't you Billy Huntington's uncle?" she asked. "Yes," he admitted; "but where in the world did you meet him?" "He is a particular friend of my brother Philip's," she explained. "Philip is a year ahead of him at Harvard, you know, but they are great pals. My brother always has him at the house whenever he's in New York." "Well, well!" laughed Huntington. "The young rascal never told me anything about it! But wait a minute--Phil Thatcher--why, of course! Billy has had him in to dine with me several times. So he's your brother!" "Yes; I was sure I was right," she smiled. "We're friends already, aren't we?" "We are," Huntington acquiesced gravely; "and I shall do something particularly nice for Billy to show my appreciation of what he has done for me." Mrs. Thatcher caught the general drift of her daughter's conversation, and she leaned across the table. "Are you not a Harvard man, Mr. Huntington?" she asked. "If so, you and Mr. Hamlen must have been in college at about the same time." "Yes," Huntington replied; and turning to Hamlen he gave the year of his graduation. "That was my Class also," was the reply; but there was nothing in Hamlen's manner to invite reminiscence. "Hamlen--Philip Hamlen," Huntington repeated meditatively. "I don't believe we knew each other, did we? But the name is familiar. I have it! You are the lost Philip Hamlen our Class Secretary has been searching for; I have seen the name in the list of missing men each time a Class Report has been issued. You must send him your history, my dear fellow. We're proud of our Class, and we don't want to lose sight of a single member." There was a bitterness in Hamlen's voice as he replied. "My history would interest no one; it is better that I remain among the 'missing men.'" Huntington sensed at once what lay behind his classmate's response. "No college graduate can afford to do that," he expostulated. "Whether one wishes it so or not, he has accepted a heritage which carries with it responsibilities, and these force him to his capacity for the honor of his Class and of his Alma Mater." Mrs. Thatcher was following the conversation not only with interest, but with a certain degree of anxiety. "Mr. Huntington is right, Philip," she added; "you know that he is right." Hamlen moved uneasily in his chair. "It is curious how much more interested our classmates become in us after we separate than while we are together in college," he said significantly.