“Have you room for this in your valise?” she asked, handing him a tidily wrapped box. Quincy reached out his hand. “What is it?” “Oh, I thought--perhaps--” she faltered, “now you are to be a college man--you might want to smoke.” There was a pause. “It is a tin of cigarettes.” “Child! Why put the idea into his head?” cried Sarah. “I had the idea before,” Quincy retorted. And then, he thanked his sister who stood expectant, not yet knowing whether she had done a thing extremely felicitous or awkward. “Even if I don’t smoke there’ll be plenty of the boys who will,” was his colorless observation. He slipped the box into his pocket. “Good-bye, Quincy, and good luck.” Adelaide kissed him. “And don’t get homesick.” “Homesick? No chance!” Sarah took his head in her hands. “Won’t you get a little homesick for me, dear--just once in a while?” At this, Quincy smiled. He preferred it. Yet of the two, his sister’s had been the selfless remark. He kissed them both--unostentatiously, though both longed to linger with his dark, serious head beside their own. Both of these women loved him. Yet, at the time, they were no more than momentary details on his path--obstructions of no import on his vision. So he drew his head away from their hands and lips as quickly as he could. And then, stung triflingly by conscience at the fact that he had done just this, he stepped back, half-way across the room, kissed them again, saw the gleam of tears in their eyes, and sturdily marched out. “Don’t come downstairs!” But they stepped after him. Adelaide helped him on with his new coat. His mother gave a loving brush to his new hat. And then, Adelaide spoke. “Oh, Quincy! You’ve fifty minutes yet.” She had espied the parlor clock. The boy held back, ashamed at his puerile impatience. The girl clapped her hands with a sudden thought that evidently gave her pleasure. “I’ll take you to the station, Quincy.” “No. That’s ridiculous.” He did not want her. “And why not?” said Sarah. “It’s an excellent idea.” “Do let me! I’ll just be a minute. I’ll throw on a coat and hat--” Quincy stood, unable to reject her; lacking the wits for it, yet loathing this adventitious family concern, clinging upon him on his way to college. Adelaide dashed upstairs. “That’s a very good idea,” pondered Sarah. “You’ve lots of time.” Quincy paced nervously up and down; he was distressed. He did not like what seemed the significance of this--he did not like the afterthought. And then an idea came to Sarah that gave her pleasure also. “Why,” she said, “you might have the machine! I’m sure your father hasn’t got it.” “No! No! No!” cried Quincy, heaping on this proposal much of the vehement denial brought over from the first. “Why, you silly boy?” “I don’t want it. I’ll take the car.” “Nonsense!” Sarah looked uncomprehending, doubting his protest. Then, she moved toward the telephone.