If you were to remonstrate with Phillip about the incompleteness of this history of what was a great and, from a Harvard viewpoint, a glorious event, he would probably tell you to read the papers. And I shall do the same. In them you will find a very succinct and interesting account of that game, with all sorts of pictures made the day before and wonderful and confusing diagrams showing where the ball was every minute of the time. But they won’t tell you what Betty said when Phillip expressed a fear that she was cold, nor what Phillip answered when Betty asked him if he danced, nor how Betty looked when Phillip asked if she would mind very much if he called some old day. But, for that matter, neither will I. Between the halves, when the day was already won and frantic wearers of the Crimson were shouting themselves hoarse, and delighted coaches were thumping each other’s shoulders and shaking hands on the slightest excuse; when the last of the liberated toy balloons were speeding off into the gray distance and the _tramp_, _tramp_ of numbed feet made a martial accompaniment to the joyous talk and laughter, Everett Kingsford leaned over and addressed himself to Phillip. “How do you and Betty agree on Emerson?” he asked gravely. “Emerson?” Phillip stared blankly. “Emerson? Who is he?” Betty looked perplexed. Kingsford laughed and turned back to Miss Wayland. Phillip could hear him talking in low tones to her and presently she was laughing softly. Betty demanded to be told. Betty’s demands were already law. Phillip explained. Betty frowned charmingly. “Everett’s always making fun of me,” she declared. “I’m afraid you’ve already discovered how ignorant I am, Mr. Ryerson. I――I don’t know a thing, really and truly! Do you care _much_ for Emerson and Thoreau?” “Hate them both,” answered Phillip heartily. “Oh, but you mustn’t _hate_ them!” “Mustn’t I?” “No; you must just not care a great deal for them.” “Very well, I don’t care a great deal for them, Miss Kingsford.” “That’s nice,” answered Betty, apparently much relieved. “I respect them both, of course, and think they were really very great men, but I don’t think people have any right to talk about them the way they do. Now that they’re dead, why can’t they be left in peace?” “I know. It’s――it’s mighty mean, I think.” “Yes. Then you’re not――not disappointed?” asked Betty. “You don’t _mind_ if I don’t talk to you about your soul, and Emerson, and the other man?” “Disappointed!” cried Phillip. “I’m mightily pleased.” “Honestly? And you don’t think I’m frightfully ignorant?” “I think――I think――――” “Yes?” Phillip was looking at her very, very ardently and Betty dropped her dark-brown eyes and studied her score-card. “I think you’re――――” But there he stopped again. He didn’t dare.