CHAPTER XXI “What has become of that nice young Mr. Ryerson, Everett?” asked Mrs. Kingsford. “We haven’t seen him since――why, not since before Christmas, have we, Betty?” “No, mother,” answered Betty calmly. “Phillip Ryerson has taken the veil,” replied Everett gravely. “Taken the veil!” echoed his mother. “What do you mean? Whose veil, Everett?” “I mean he has withdrawn from the world of society and is hiding himself in the monastic seclusion of Thayer Hall. Really, I don’t quite know what’s up with Phil, but he’s frightfully down on his luck for some old reason, and I never see him more than once in a coon’s age. I think, though, that his folks have lost their money, or something like that has happened. He left our table right after the holidays and went to eating at Randall. And he gave up a couple of very jolly rooms he had on Mount Auburn Street and went to a horrible cheap dive down near the river. Since then, however, he’s gone in with a fellow named Baker who has a joint in Thayer. I’ve tried to get him to come here to dinner with me a couple of times, but he seems soured on polite society. I daresay Betty has thrown him over.” “Who’s that you’re speaking of?” asked Mr. Kingsford, looking up from his _Transcript_. “That young Ryerson?” “Yes, sir,” Everett replied. “Well, if his people have lost their money I guess he thinks society is too expensive for him. I’m glad he’s got so much sense. I always thought he seemed level-headed. I wish you were as much so, sir.” Everett grinned. “But,” continued Mr. Kingsford, glancing up and down the market columns, “it won’t do for him to think we are snobbish. And besides, I won’t have him breaking Betty’s heart. You tell him from me that I want him to come in to dinner next week.” “You’re very nice, papa,” said Betty sweetly, “but my heart’s not nearly so fragile as you seem to think.” “Glad to hear it; must be like your mother’s. She broke mine fifty times before she finally consented to marry me, and I don’t believe she ever sustained a fracture herself.” “Poor old dad,” murmured Betty. “Betty, you’re getting into a most annoying habit of referring to me as aged,” said Mr. Kingsford, scowling blackly. “I want you to understand, miss, that I am only six years older than your mother and she’s the youngest woman in Boston.” Mrs. Kingsford smiled and blushed, as she always did at her husband’s compliments, and arose in response to the appearance at the library door of the maid with wraps. “Come, Betty, the carriage is here,” she said. Everett accompanied them downstairs and saw them into the brougham. When he returned to the library he found his father had thrown aside the paper and was thoughtfully watching the smoke curl up from the tip of his cigar. “Think that’s right about young Ryerson, do you, Everett?” “About his folks losing money? Yes, sir; I gathered as much from what he has told me.” “Sorry to hear it. He seems a fine sort of a boy. Do you like him?”