“Not poker, I swear!” “What’s the difference? Cards are cards, and――――” “Very well, old chap, cards _are_ cards. Who’s for a nice game of casino?” Strange to relate, the suggestion was not well received. About a week later Phillip found himself, to his surprise, engaged in packing a small trunk with apparel for the recess. The end of the term had come so suddenly that it found him rather bewildered and quite at a loss to know whether to welcome or regret its advent. His delight in the prospect of homecoming and of acting as host to John North was offset by his dismay at the idea of being parted from Betty for a fortnight. His leavetaking from that enigmatic young person had been far from satisfactory to him. It had been devoid of any of the solemnity and tender sadness that, to him at least, had appeared befitting. Betty had been more than usually high-spirited and matter-of-fact, and had refused to recognize the propriety of sentimental farewells. She had also scoffed at the notion of letter-writing. “But you know I――I love you, Betty!” Phillip had pleaded. Betty’s smiling countenance froze instantly. “I know you’re a very silly boy,” she had answered, severely, “and a very untruthful one. You promised――――” “I know I did,” Phillip had answered miserably. “But this is different, Betty; don’t you see?” “No, I don’t see.” “But I’m going away――――” “For a week.” “For nearly two weeks! For a fortnight!” Somehow, fortnight sounded more eternal than two weeks. Betty, however, failed to see the distinction. “You talk as though it were two years,” she had replied scathingly. “Well, just the same, it’s a powerful long time! If you’d write me just once, Betty, it――――” “Not a single letter! If you can’t remember me for two weeks without seeing my handwriting I’m willing you should forget all about me.” “Remember you!” Phillip had exclaimed tragically. “Of course I shall remember you, Betty! It isn’t that, only. Can’t you understand――――” Betty couldn’t. Neither could she understand that it was necessary that Phillip should kiss her good-by. He tried for a long, long while to explain this to her in such a way that she should discern the imperative nature of it, but without success. In the end he had had to be content with a smiling handshake and a cheerful, undisturbed “Good-by, Phil,” supplemented a moment later by an airy gesture from the drawing-room window that, at least so he found courage to believe, had resemblance to a kiss thrown from small finger tips. He had ridden back to Cambridge in a mood of mingled hope and despair, of happiness and pain――a mood which, although not recognizable as such at the time, is the sweetest of all a lover’s many conditions.