The mandolin club played softly in the dining-room bay-window, hidden by a bank of palms and ferns, and the lights glowed through rose-coloured shades. The supper-table, in honour of a riding club to which Mr. and Mrs. Roseveldt belonged, whose members were the guests of the evening, as far as possible suggested their favorite exercise. The table itself was horseshoe in shape; saddle-rock oysters, and tongue sandwiches were served. There was whipped cream, the ices were in the form of top-boots, saddles, jockey-hats, and riding whips, and the bonbonnières were satin beaver hats.
Stacey appeared early in the evening. It was the first time that Milly had seen him in a dress suit, and Milly confided to me privately that he seemed to her to have suddenly grown several inches taller. He was very grave and dignified, not at all like the old rollicking, boyish Stacey with whom Milly was familiar. Milly, quite inexplicably to herself, felt a little awed by him and was at loss for a subject of conversation. She referred to the Inter-scholastic Games, and Stacey scowled so violently that Milly saw that this was an unfortunate beginning, and hastened to change the subject to that of the proposed tournament at Narragansett Pier. They were practically alone, for the parlor had been deserted by the onslaught on the supper table, and Stacey said confidentially:
“I’ll tell you just how it is, Milly; I ought not to take part in that tournament.”
“Oh, do!” pleaded Milly.
“I will if you say so. It shall be just as you say, for I’ll do anything for you; but if I go into this thing I lose every last chance of passing my examinations for Harvard. All the same, I’ll do it if you want me to.”
“No, no;” murmured Milly; “not at such a cost; but it can’t be as bad as that. What do you mean?”
“I mean that I have made a precious fool of myself all winter. I have gone in for athletics at the expense of my studies, and I’ve failed in both; and now that the time is coming for my examinations it will be a tight squeeze if I pass. I made up my mind to reform after I extinguished myself at the games, and I’ve been cramming ever since. Do you know what the boys call me now?”
“A regular dig, I suppose.”
“No, that’s obsolete. At Harvard a hard student is a ‘grind,’ and a very hard student is a ‘long-haired grind.’ Woodpecker is complimentary enough to call me a ‘Sutherland Sister hair invigorator grind.’”