Mr. Goodyear, indeed, clutched with his eye at the blue-and-gold button in the lapel of Bertram’s coat, at the figure of him, and at the name.
“You aren’t Chester who played tackle on the Berkeley Varsity last season?” he asked. An old Harvard oar, Goodyear kept up his interest in athletics.
“Tackle and half,” said the youth. “Yes, sir.”
“Well, well, I remember you in the game!” said Goodyear.
Mrs. Tiffany, now that her protegé no longer needed watching, had returned to her tea things.
“Eleanor,” she called. “Will you run into the house and get that box of chocolate wafers that’s over the ice chest?”
“Let me carry ’em for you, Miss Gray,” put in Chester, breaking through a college reminiscence of Goodyear’s.
Eleanor never flicked an eyelash as she announced:
“I should be very glad.”
Tiffany, glancing over the group, 32 noted with comparative relief that none but she, Goodyear, and the young persons involved, had heard this passage.