they were excellent females--oh, very excellent. Times have
changed with a vengeance, judging from the line-up of co-eds
to-day. There was one girl there who can't be a day over
eighteen--and she looked as if she were made out of gold and
roseleaves and dewdrops."

"The oracle speaks in poetry," laughed Eric. "That was Florence
Percival, who led the class in mathematics, as I'm a living man.
By many she is considered the beauty of her class. I can't say
that such is my opinion. I don't greatly care for that blonde,
babyish style of loveliness--I prefer Agnes Campion. Did you
notice her--the tall, dark girl with the ropes of hair and a sort
of crimson, velvety bloom on her face, who took honours in
philosophy?"

"I DID notice her," said David emphatically, darting a keen side
glance at his friend. "I noticed her most particularly and
critically--for someone whispered her name behind me and coupled
it with the exceedingly interesting information that Miss Campion
was supposed to be the future Mrs. Eric Marshall. Whereupon I
stared at her with all my eyes."

"There is no truth in that report," said Eric in a tone of
annoyance. "Agnes and I are the best of friends and nothing
more. I like and admire her more than any woman I know; but if
the future Mrs. Eric Marshall exists in the flesh I haven't met
her yet. I haven't even started out to look for her--and don't
intend to for some years to come. I have something else to think
of," he concluded, in a tone of contempt, for which anyone might
have known he would be punished sometime if Cupid were not deaf