Goodhue gave the impression of not having met Rogers to any extent. He was a sturdy young man with handsome, finely formed features. George looked at him closely, because this young man alone of the Freshmen he had met remained unmoved by his fame. "Would like you to meet Morton, Goodhue." Goodhue glanced at George inquiringly, almost resentfully. "George Morton," Rogers stumbled on, as if an apology were necessary. "Stringham, you know, and Green----" "Glad to meet you," Goodhue said, indifferently. "Thanks," George acknowledged as indifferently, and turned away. Goodhue, it came upon him with a new appreciation of difficulties, was the proper sort. He watched him walk off with a well-dressed, weak-looking youth, threading a careless course among his classmates. "How long have you known this fellow Goodhue?" George asked as he crossed the campus with Rogers. "Oh, Goodhue?" Rogers said, uncomfortably. "I've seen him any number of times. Ran into him last night." "Good-looking man," George commented. "Where's he come from?" "You don't know who Dicky Goodhue is!" Rogers cried. "I mean, you must have heard of his father anyway, the old Richard. Real Estate for generations. Money grows for them without their turning a hand. Dicky's up at the best clubs in New York. Plays junior polo on Long Island." George had heard enough. "If I do as well with the other exams," he said, "I'm going to get in." With Freshmen customs what they were, he was thinking, he could appear as well dressed as the Goodhue crowd. He would take pains with that. He passed Goodhue on his way to the examination hall that afternoon, and Goodhue didn't remember him. The incident made George thoughtful. Was football going to prove the all-powerful lever he had fancied? At any rate, Rogers' value was at last established. He reported that evening to Bailly: "I think it's all right so far." The tutor grinned. "To-day's beyond recall, but to-morrow's the future, and it cradles, among other dragons, French." He pointed out passages in a number of books. "Wrestle with those until midnight," he counselled, "and then go to sleep. Day after to-morrow we'll hope you can apply your boot to a football again." Mrs. Bailly stopped him in the hall. "How did it go?" she asked, eagerly. Her anxiety had about it something maternal. It gave him for the first time a feeling of being at home in Princeton. "I got through to-day," he said. "Good! Good!" She nodded toward the study. "Then you have made him very happy." "I always want to," George said. "That's a worthy ambition, isn't it?" She looked at him gropingly, as if she almost caught his allusion. IX