Phillip had spent the morning in a condition of funk. He wished heartily that he hadn’t agreed to Kingsford’s request; the prospect of sitting for two hours between an elderly woman who would tell him of Everett’s infantile adventures and maladies and a girl who would talk to him about Thoreau and Emerson and――horror of horrors!――possibly his soul, was appalling. Thoreau and Emerson didn’t interest him greatly as yet, and being a very healthy young gentleman, with a good digestion and scant knowledge of such a thing as a liver, he never considered his soul at all. The idea of being taken suddenly ill with some strange and serious ailment occurred to him, but as that would necessitate his remaining away from the game, since tickets were at a prohibitive price, he gave it up. To miss the smallest portion of the contest was not to be thought of for an instant; better far to perish a victim to friendship. He was to meet Kingsford and his party in the square at half past one. Most of the fellows at his table were either having lunch in town or heroically braving the restaurants in company with friends or relatives, and Phillip had the table practically to himself. The question whether to wear a nice new rain-coat or an old ulster had bothered him all the forenoon, and he had decided in favour of the ulster. But after lunch a sudden realization of its unloveliness came to him, and he stole back to his room by way of Mount Auburn Street, so as not to encounter Kingsford in the square, and donned the rain-coat. A girl is a girl, he reflected, even if she talks philosophy and psychology! He found Kingsford waiting for him, surrounded by three ladies and a retiring fellow who, he supposed, must be Muir. Kingsford accused him of tardiness in one breath and introduced him to the rest of the party in another; and then started them off unceremoniously through the throng in the direction of Soldiers’ Field. Phillip found himself with Mrs. Kingsford, and after a first moment of bewilderment realized that his picture of a rather garrulous elderly and white-haired lady was all wrong. Everett’s mother looked to be about twenty-five, and was so beautiful and so gracious that Phillip would have forgiven her had she launched at once into a catalogue of the diseases of children and their remedies. But she did nothing of the sort. Instead she talked charmingly of everyday affairs, whimsically anticipated being ill for weeks to come as a result of sitting outdoors in such weather, asked one or two sensible questions regarding football, good-naturedly criticized the persons and objects they passed in their mad, headlong career out Boylston Street, and was altogether so captivating that by the time they had fought their way into the grounds Phillip’s one desire in life was to sit beside her and listen to her for the rest of the afternoon.