"And Mrs. Dennison is only socio-hospitable," she responded. "Father, you really are terrible, this morning." The doctor smiled benevolently at her arraignment. Then, hurriedly gathering himself together, he stuck out an appealing cup for some more coffee. Olive shook her head. "No; not one other drop. You have had five, already. If you don't stop at that, I'll tell the cook to put you on to postum. Now please do listen to me. I was asking you whether we'd best go to this dinner of Mrs. Dennison's." "When?" the doctor inquired. Olive's lips twitched at the corners. "About a half an hour ago," she answered. "No, wait." Swiftly she seized and snatched away the paper, just as her father was preparing to bury himself anew. "The dinner is next Thursday, to meet Mr. Brenton." "Who is Mr. Brenton?" her father asked, with bland interest. "The new rector. You heard him, two weeks ago, you know." This time, Olive's accent held a slight reproach. Purely as a matter of heredity, Doctor Keltridge was senior warden of Saint Peter's; but, as a general rule, he totally forgot to go to church. "Oh, yes, yes. The new chap with the voice." The doctor roused himself suddenly. "It is a wonderful voice, Olive; his whole respiratory system must be perfect, and his lungs. I never heard a better resonance nor better breath control. Really, I'd like to hear him speak at closer range. When did you say the dinner is? Of course, we'll go. Dennison isn't a bad little fellow, even if his mind did stop short at history." "The dinner is for Thursday," Olive reiterated patiently. "Thursday. Hm. What am I doing then?" her father questioned for, as may be imagined, it was Olive who kept the run of his engagements. "Nothing, after the hospital directors' meeting at two. Really," Olive spoke a little absently, herself; "I almost wish that you were." As invariably happened, the doctor's attention became alert when she least expected it. "Eh? What?" he asked her, in manifest surprise, for it was most unusual for Olive to balk at any invitation. Her colour came. "Oh, it's all right. Of course, we'll go. In fact, there's no getting out of it, as long as you are senior warden." The doctor fished for the cord of his see-off glasses. When they were astride his nose,-- "You like Mrs. Dennison, Olive," he said crisply. "Therefore, by a process of elimination, it probably is the Brentons you don't want to meet. What is the matter with them?" "Oh, nothing," the girl evaded. "It's only that I hate too prompt a rushing into a new acquaintance." "Not always," her father reminded her. "As a rule, you've been willing enough to meet the new people at the college." Olive Keltridge's ancestral notions, the notions born of Brahmin and academic New England, spoke in her reply. "Yes; but they are different." Her father, though, saw more clearly. He was too well aware of the quality of the raw material whence the growing college faculties must recruit their ranks.