Phillip muttered his thanks, feeling rather ashamed of himself for allowing her to credit him with such ideal devotion to study, and turned to the two girls. Betty was smiling across at him brightly, but it was a smile that he didn’t altogether like. “I’m so glad to see you,” she said as she gave him her hand. “I’ve always had a devouring curiosity to look upon a real, genuine grind.” “Grind?” he asked uncomfortably. “Yes; one who burns the midnight oil, and wears wet towels around his head, and heroically resists all such attractions as dinners in order that he may stay locked up in his room studying hard. You’re very interesting, Mr. Ryerson.” Phillip smiled unenjoyably and was glad for once to turn away from Betty. He shook hands with Miss Wayland, a pronounced and rather regal blonde, and exchanged a few words of banter with Everett. Then he glanced irresolutely toward Mrs. Kingsford and from her to Betty. Betty had perched herself on the window-seat and was temptingly accessible. Phillip took his courage in hand and dropped down beside her. “Betty!” Betty’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “What did you call me?” “Betty,” he faltered. “Don’t you think it would be nicer to say Miss Kingsford?” “No, I don’t,” he replied doggedly. “I do; much nicer.” Betty hummed a tune. “Betty,” he pleaded, “don’t be mean. It――I――I want to explain, please.” “Explain what?” asked Betty, with a great show of interest. “Why I haven’t been to see you.” “Why, you were studying very hard, of course.” “I wasn’t. I mean, that isn’t the reason.” “Oh!” Betty’s face fell. “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it all! You’re not a grind, after all? And to think of all the sympathy and admiration I’ve wasted on you! Really, you’re very disappointing!” “Betty, please be serious,” Phillip begged. “Serious? Very well, I’ll try.” She drew the corners of her mouth down and frowned intensely. Phillip sighed. “How long must I stay like this?” she asked. “It’s――it’s awfully puckery!” “I――I got your picture,” said Phillip softly. “Thank you, Betty.” “Picture?” Betty’s frown increased. “Picture? Oh, yes, of course. Gracious! I’d forgotten,” she fibbed. “I sent away so many of those old things Christmas! Did you like it?” “Yes,” he answered miserably. Then, “Who did――how many did you give away?” he asked. “How many? Oh, heaps; I can’t begin to remember. I always send photographs Christmas; it’s such a nice, easy way to give presents, isn’t it? I always think they’re lots nicer and more intimate than Christmas cards.” “I don’t believe it,” he muttered doubtfully. “What, that they’re nicer than cards? Oh, well, every one to his taste. Next time I’ll send you a card: one with a lovely little landscape all frosted over with that glittery stuff, and a nice little verse in the corner. I’m glad you told me; I like to know what people want, don’t you?” “I didn’t mean that; you know I didn’t. Don’t you want me to tell you why I――why I haven’t been in to see you?”