rocking violently, turned upon Vera an
eager and excited smile.

"Think of our Vera knowing Mr. Winthrop socially?" she exclaimed. "It's
grand! And they say his sisters are elegant ladies. Last winter I read
about them at the opera, and it always printed what they had on. Why
didn't you tell me you knowed him, Vera?" she cried reproachfully. "I
tell you everything!"

"I don't know him," protested the girl. "I used to see him when he lived
in the same town."

Mabel, inviting further confidences, ceased rocking and nodded
encouragingly. "Up in Geneva?" she prompted.

"Yes," said Vera, "I used to see him every afternoon then, when he
played ball on the college nine--"

"Who?" demanded Mannie incredulously.

"Winthrop," said Vera.

"Did he?" exclaimed Mannie. His tone suggested that he might still be
persuaded that there was good in the man.

"What'd he play?" he demanded suspiciously.

"First," said Vera.

"Did he!" exclaimed Mannie. His tone now was of open approbation.

Vera had raised her eyes and turned them toward the windows. Beyond the
soot-stained sumach tree, the fire escapes of the department store,
she saw the sun-drenched campus, the buttressed chapel, the ancient,
drooping elms; and on a canvas bag, poised like a winged Mercury, a tall
straight figure in gray, dusty flannels.

"He was awfully good-looking," murmured the girl, "and awfully tall. He
could stop a ball as high as--that!" She raised her arm in the air, and
then, suddenly conscious, flushed, and turned to the piano.

"Go on, tell us," urged Mabel. "So you first met him in Geneva, did
you?"

"No," corrected Vera, "saw him there. I--only met him once."

Mannie interrupted hilariously.

"I only saw him once, too," he cried, "that was enough for me."

Vera swiftly spun the piano stool so that she faced him. Her eyes were
filled with concern.

"You, Mannie!" she demanded anxiously. "What had you done?"

"Done!" exclaimed Mannie indignantly, "nothing! What'd you think I'd
done? Did you think I was a crook?"

Vera bowed her shoulders and shivered as though the boy had cursed at
her. She shook her head vehemently and again swung back to the piano.
Stumbling awkwardly, her fingers ran over the keys in a swift clatter of
broken chords. "No," she whispered, "no, Mannie, no."

With a laugh of delighted recollection, Mannie turned to Mabel.

"He raided a poolroom I was working at," he explained. "He picked me out
as a sheet writer b