There was an embarrassed pause. Ruth blushed because she had told what in childhood she had called a “white lie”; Dorothy because she accepted the deception that she would not herself have instigated, and Nels for many reasons. “Whoever he is he’s not a poor artist,” he said. “I know the price of roses in December,” whereupon he blushed more redly in remembrance. “I thought you were going to spend the entire day at the Metropolitan,” said Dorothy, beginning to enjoy the situation. “So did I,” said Nels, and then with a sudden burst of resolution, “I don’t mind telling you all about it—I’ve been an awful fool, and if you’ve decided to play with some one else, I don’t blame you. We walked to the Met this morning; Alice lives way uptown and I thought it would be a pleasant hike, but when we got there she was quite worn out, and then some fellow she knows came along with a car and offered to take her home and she went; said the walk had made her too tired to work. Of course he offered to ‘pick me up,’ too, but I preferred to walk and I did—all the way from the Metropolitan to Washington Square—now you know the entire story and can laugh to your heart’s content.” But neither of the girls laughed. Nels had evidently learned his lesson, and they were in no mood to increase his discomfiture. “I wanted to see you to ask if you know where Professor Pendragon went when he left town. He said some place in the country, but I’ve forgotten where,” said Ruth. “Yes; I got a note from him only this morning. He’s visiting a friend of his in the Berkshires. North Adams is the post-office and I’ve forgotten the name of the house. One of those big country places with a fancy name—wait and I’ll get the note from my room.” “He believed that about the roses and now that he’s sane again, my conscience hurts,” whispered Dorothy when he had left them. “Let it hurt a bit; I wouldn’t tell him,” whispered Ruth. “Here it is,” said Nels, returning. “Professor Percival Pendragon, care of Mr. John Peyton-Russell, Fir Tree Farm, North Adams, Massachusetts—some address, but anyway it will reach him.” “Peyton-Russell—he’s at the Peyton-Russell’s?” “You know them?” “Yes, that is, I know Mrs. Peyton-Russell a bit; she’s a friend of my aunt’s, and we’re going there for Christmas—going tomorrow.”