"Why, Amelia, I thought George Pettingill was a Yale man."
Amelia examined carefully a picture on the other side of the room.
"Well, he is, but only a Freshman, and I don't think bright blue's a nice color. The Yale men are sort of like the color too. Don't you think they're a little bit loud and conceited, Miss Carewe?"
This was rank heresy. Belinda smiled and waited.
"There was a Columbia man at Daisy's party—a Sophomore. He's the most elegant dancer. His name's Lawrence—Charlie Lawrence. He says my step just suits his. We had five two-steps and three waltzes."
For a few moments Amelia lapsed into reminiscent silence, but silence is not her métier.
"He has three brothers, but no sister at all, and he says a fellow needs a girl's influence to keep him straight. There's such a lot of wickedness in college life, and by the time you're a Sophomore, you know the world mighty well."
There was the glibness of quotation about the recital, and Belinda indulged in a little smiling reminiscence on her own account. She, too, in earlier days, had been in Arcady—with desperately wicked and blasé Sophomores who needed a nice girl's gentle influence. Verily, the old methods wear well.
"He's coming to see me next reception night, if I can get permission from Mamma before then," said Amelia.
"Miss Carewe!" called a voice in the hall. Belinda turned to go.