"We," she said, "will be in Maine. Can't you run up in August? Dicky Goodhue's coming then."
He looked at her. He tried to hide his hunger for the companionship, the relaxation such a visit would give. He glanced away.
"I wish I could. Have you forgotten I'm to make money? I've got to try to do that this summer, Betty."
There, it was out. Colour stole into her white cheeks.
"I'm sorry," she said.
He had another reason for refusing. He was growing afraid of Betty. He was conscious of an increasing effort to drive her memory from the little room where Sylvia's portrait watched. It was, he told himself, because he didn't see Sylvia oftener, couldn't feel his heart respond to the exciting enmity in her brilliant eyes.
Goodhue and Dalrymple, it developed, were parting, amicably enough as far as any one knew.
"Dolly thinks he'll room alone next year," was Goodhue's explanation. Dalrymple explained nothing.
Driving back to town one afternoon Goodhue proposed to George that he replace Dalrymple.
"Campus rooms," he said, "aren't as expensive as most in town."