e sharp taste of the ambition to which he had
condemned himself.

"Don't worry," she said, as he descended at his lodging, "you'll get in.
Dear old Squibs told me so."

He experienced a strong impulse to touch her hand again. He thanked her,
said good-night, and turned resolutely away.

It was only after long scrutiny of Sylvia's photograph that he attacked
Bailly's marked passages. Again and again he reminded himself that he
had actually seen her that day, and that she had either not remembered
him, or had, with a deliberate cruelty, sought to impress him with his
ugly insignificance in a crowded and pleasurable landscape.

Then why should this other girl of the same class treat him so
differently?

The answer came glibly. For that instant he was wholly distasteful to
himself.

"Because she doesn't know."

He picked up a piece of the broken riding crop, flushing hotly. He
would detach himself from the landscape for Sylvia. He would use that
crop yet.

X

He worked all the next day in the examination hall. He purposely chose a
seat in the row behind Goodhue. Five or six men, clearly all friends of
Goodhue's, sat near him, each modelled more or less as he was. George
noticed one exception, a short fellow who stood out from the entire
room. At first George thought it was because he was older, then he
decided it was the light moustache, the thick hair, the eyes that lacked
lustre, the long, white fingers. The man barely lifted his examination
sheets. He glanced at them once, then set to work. He was the first to
rise and hand his papers in. The rest paused, stared enviously, and
sighed. George heard Goodhue say to the man next him:

"How do you suppose Spike does it?"

George wondered why they called the dainty little man Spike.

He was slow and painstaking himself, and the room was fairly well
emptied before he finished. Except for the French, he was satisfied. He
took a deep breath. The ordeal was over. For the first time in more than
two months he was his own master. He could do anything he pleased.

First of all, he hurried to Squibs Bailly.

"Lend me a novel--something exciting," he began. "No, I wouldn't open a
text-book even for you to-night. The schedule's dead and buried, sir,
and you haven't given me another."

Bailly's wrinkled face approved.

"You wouldn't be coming at me this way if there was any doubt. You shall
have your novel. I'm afraid----"

He paused, laughing.

"I mean, my tas