But Eleanor Bent—here was no blotting-out, but rather a heightening of vivid beauty. Utterly, who did not have an enthusiastic temperament, said to himself that he had never seen a more charming girl. She walked well in her approach to the center of the platform, she bowed gracefully, she had, he decided, the most wonderful gray eyes he had ever seen, and the most musical, low voice. She was in a sense his discovery also, and this evening he would talk to her and learn just how remarkable she was.
Her address was merely an elaborate farewell, flowery, perhaps, but appropriately and becomingly flowery, matching well the roses and the honeysuckle and the Southern inflections of her sweet young voice.
While the degrees were being conferred, Utterly consulted again the catalogue in his pocket. The name of the teacher of English was Scott, Henry Harrington Scott; was certainly the smooth-faced gentleman. He lived probably in one of the pleasant houses on the campus with their domestic resemblance to the classic architecture of the large buildings.
He looked with interest at Richard Everman Lister when he returned to his place on the organ bench for the recessional. Richard's countenance was frank and open; there had descended to him, if he were at all related to this mysterious Basil, no outward trace, at least, of the interesting qualities of mind and soul which distinguished the author of "Bitter Bread" and "Roses of Pæstum."
CHAPTER IV MR. UTTERLY MAKES THE ACQUAINTANCE OF MRS. SCOTT
When Utterly started from the hotel to call upon the Professor of English, the three members of the Scott family were still at the dinner table. Mrs. Scott occupied the chief seat, a small, birdlike creature with quick motions and a sharp tongue which helped to shape staccato notes as varied as those of a catbird. She condemned now in rapid succession the decorations of the chapel, President Lister's address, and Eleanor Bent's color, which she believed was not altogether natural.
Little Cora, who sat to her mother's left, was, to most persons acquainted with the family, a negligible quantity. She had gone through college because college was at hand, and she would now assume, it was to be expected, like the other girls in Waltonville, an attitude of waiting, which was to her mother not without its precise object.
"Richard Lister never looked at any one else," she often insisted to her husband.