"Then you can't tell me what you go to college for?"

Again the young man looked perplexedly at his father. There was no anger
in that tone--no emotion of any kind. But what was the meaning of the
_look_, the look of a sorrow that was tragic?

"I know you think I've disgraced you, father, and myself," said Arthur.
"But it isn't so--really, it isn't. No one, not even the faculty, thinks
the less of me. This sort of thing often occurs in our set."

"Your 'set'?"

"Among the fellows I travel with. They're the nicest men in Harvard.
They're in all the best clubs--and lead in supporting the athletics
and--and--their fathers are among the richest, the most distinguished men
in the country. There are only about twenty or thirty of us, and we make
the pace for the whole show--the whole university, I mean. Everybody
admires and envies us--wants to be in our set. Even the grinds look up to
us, and imitate us as far as they can. We give the tone to the
university!"

"What is 'the tone'?"

Again Arthur shifted uneasily. "It's hard to explain that sort of
thing. It's a sort of--of manner. It's knowing how to do the--the right
sort of thing."

"What is the right sort of thing?"

"I can't put it into words. It's what makes you look at one man and say,