and put them away among their own belongings. How much time he
consumed in this search is difficult to reckon;--it is almost impossible
to believe that there is absolutely no collar-button in a house.

And what William's state of mind had become is matter for exorbitant
conjecture. Jane, arriving at his locked door upon an errand, was bidden
by a thick, unnatural voice to depart.

"Mamma says, 'What in mercy's name is the matter?'" Jane called. "She
whispered to me, 'Go an' see what in mercy's name is the matter with
Willie; an' if the glass cut him, after all; an' why don't he come
down'; an' why don't you, Willie? We're all havin' the nicest time!"

"You g'way!" said the strange voice within the room. "G'way!"

"Well, did the glass cut you?"

"No! Keep quiet! G'way!"

"Well, are you EVER comin' down to your party?"

"Yes, I am! G'way!"

Jane obeyed, and William somehow completed the task upon which he was
engaged. Genius had burst forth from his despair; necessity had become
a mother again, and William's collar was in place. It was tied there.
Under his necktie was a piece of string.

He had lost count of time, but he was frantically aware of its passage;
agony was in the thought of so many rich moments frittered away;
up-stairs, while Joe Bullitt and Johnnie Watson made hay below. And
there was another spur to haste in his fear that the behavior of Mrs.
Baxter might not be all that the guest of honor would naturally expect
of William's mother. As for Jane, his mind filled with dread; shivers
passed over him at intervals.

It was a dismal thing to appear at a "party" (and that his own) in "last
summer's suit," but when he had hastily put it on and faced the mirror,
he felt a little better--for three or four seconds. Then he turned to
see how the back of it looked.

And collapsed in a chair, moaning.

XIV

TIME DOES FLY

He remembered now what he had been too hurried to remember earlier. He
had worn these clothes on the previous Saturday, and, returning from a
glorified walk with Miss Pratt, he had demonstrated a fact to which his
near-demolition of the wafers, this afternoon, was additional testimony.
This fact, roughly stated, is that a person of seventeen, in love, is
liable to sit down anywhere. William had dreamily seated himself upon
a tabouret in the library, without noticing that Jane had left her open
paint-box there. Jane had just been painting sunsets; naturally all the
little blocks