“If you’ll tell me where you were going,” he continued, motioning his companions peremptorily away, “I’ll walk along with you.”
“Oh, I don’t want to trouble you further,” protested Patricia. “I’m quite all right now.”
“You’re shaking like a leaf,” contradicted her escort gently, falling into step beside her, as they started across the campus. “Let’s sit down over there a while,” he added, as they approached a stone bench under a tree near the Fine Arts Building; “or have you a class now?”
“No, not until three-thirty.”
“What year are you?” he began, as soon as they were seated. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.”
“I’m a Sophomore, and my name, by the way, is Patricia Randall.”
“Mine is Jack Dunn,” said the boy, as simply as if his name were not known the length and breadth of the campus.
“I’m afraid you are not very observing,” remarked Patricia.
“Why?”
“Because we are in the same Shakespeare class, and have been all this term.”