“Talking about looks, mamma, he saw your photograph and those of father on my mantel when he was here, and Margey’s, too. He said ‘we Ryersons’ were a good-looking lot and――but Margey mustn’t see this or she’ll get conceited――that my sister was a beauty. It sounds kind of cheeky, but it really wasn’t, the way he said it.” Phillip described the walk to the extent of three pages and promised to send a book of views which showed some of the places they had seen. Then, “I met his roommate, David Meadowcamp; isn’t it a funny name? He’s almost as funny as his name, too. But he was awfully nice, as I was sure he would be if he was North’s friend. He was all sprawled out on a Turkish couch thing when we went in and North woke him up and introduced me. I was a bit uncomfortable at the queer way he looked me over, just as though I were a horse he was thinking of buying, but he shook hands and was very pleasant and kind. “He and North had a sort of ‘scrap,’ as they say here, just in fun, you know. I didn’t understand what it was about exactly, but I had to laugh to see them falling over the chairs and things, for Meadowcamp is just about as big as John North and heavier, I reckon. Meadowcamp told North that he had seen an article in the Sunday paper on the care and feeding of infants, or something like that, and that he had cut it out and saved it for him to read, and North looked kind of queer and threw a book at Meadowcamp and then they had it, and Meadowcamp finally got North back of the couch and sat on him and made him make all kind of funny speeches of apology, and made him apologize to me for ‘misbehaving in the presence of an honoured guest.’ “They have splendid rooms and the study is full of jolly things to look at. The walls are just covered all over with rugs and pictures and there are book-cases that come half-way up them filled with expensive books. And North said I was to help myself whenever I wanted. He showed me the pictures when he found I was staring at them, and said that a lot of them were originals by a fellow named Remington who does Indian drawings in the magazines. They were great. And there were a lot of water-colours and oil paintings and a lot of steins――those German beer mugs, you know――hanging on hooks. And I counted fifteen ‘shingles,’ too. A shingle is a framed paper, like the diplomas, saying that you belong to a club or society. They must belong to a lot.