so hard! But I _can't_ talk. I never know what to say."

"You were perfect! And they were all such idiots--except Mort. Mort told
me you were very temperamental, and had a wonderful mind. I said, 'You
bet she has!' The old ladies were pills."

"Oh, Maurice, you goose!... Maurice, what will Mr. Houghton say?"

"Hell say, 'Bless you, my children!' Nelly, what _was_ the matter with
the dinner?"

"Matter? Why, it was perfect! It was"--she made a dash for some of his
own words--"simply corking! Though perhaps Rose was a little too young
for it. Didn't you enjoy it?" she demanded, astonished.

He said that if she enjoyed it, that was all he cared about! He didn't
tell her--perhaps he didn't know it himself--that his own lack of
enjoyment was due to his inarticulate consciousness that he had not
belonged anywhere at that dinner table. He was too old--and he was too
young. The ladies talked down to him, and Brown and Hastings were polite
to him. "Damn 'em, _polite_! Well," he thought, "'course, they know that
a man in my position isn't in their class. But--" After a while he found
himself thinking: "Those hags Eleanor raked in had no manners. Talked to
me about my 'exams'! I'm glad I snubbed the old one, I don't think
Rose was too young," he said, aloud. "Oh, Star, you are wonderful!"

And she, letting her hair fall cloudlike over her shoulders, silently
held out her arms to him. Instantly his third bad moment vanished.

But a fourth was on its way; even as he kissed that white shoulder, he