“Why, it’s just an invitation to a spread,—a sort of garden party. You go there any time after the Tree exercises,” explained Beverly.
“Ah—but that’s not all,” said the lady.
“If she only wouldn’t look at me that way,” thought Beverly.
“I have a cousin,” she went on, “the dearest boy in all the world. Look—this is he.” Beverly, with a slight feeling of apprehension, followed her stubby finger down the first column of names engraved on the invitation, until it stopped at “William Paxton Fields.”
“Do you know him?” she asked. Beverly wavered a moment; he felt what was coming.
“Yes, I know Fields,” he said, restraining a panic-stricken impulse to dart away in the crowd.
“I felt that you did—something told me. He’s a dear boy, isn’t he?”
“He’s a very good fellow,” replied Beverly.
“Ah, I like that,” she said heartily, straightening her dumpy shoulders and expanding her chest with enthusiasm. “I love the way you great, loyal college men stand up for each other. It’s beautiful. Now I must find him,” she went on rapidly, with a keen sense of opportunity, “and tell him I’m here—give myself over to him. He lives—where does he live?” For his own sake, Beverly would have cheerfully told her that he didn’t know, or that Billy had moved, or that he didn’t have a room at all; but he hesitated to separate Billy from his family, when a word might unite them, so he said:—
“He rooms in Claverly Hall; but I doubt if you can find him there now.”