im with a sense nearly
premonitory.

When he had entered in response to Goodhue's call his doubt increased.
The room seemed inimical to him, yet it was a normal enough place. What
did it harbour that he was afraid of, that he was reluctant even to look
for?

Goodhue was nearly ready. Dalrymple lounged on a window seat. He glanced
at George languidly.

"Will say, Morton, you did more than your share against those Crimson
Freshmen Saturday."

George nodded without answering. He had found the object the room
contained for which he had experienced a premonitory fear. On one of the
two desks stood an elaborately framed replica of the portrait he himself
possessed of Sylvia Planter. Its presence there impressed him as a
wrong, for to study and commune with that pictured face he had fancied
his unique privilege. Nor did its presence in this room seem quite
honest, for Sylvia, he was willing to swear, wasn't the type to scatter
her likenesses among young men. George had an instinct to turn on
Dalrymple and demand a history of the print, since Goodhue, he was
certain, wouldn't have placed it there without authority. After all,
such authority might exist. What did he know of Sylvia aside from her
beauty, her arrogance, and her breeding? That was it. Her breeding made
the exposure of her portrait here questionable.

"What you staring at?" Dalrymple asked, sullenly.

"Is this your desk?" George demanded.

"Yes. Why?"

George faced him abruptly.

"I was looking at that photograph."

"What for?" Dalrymple demanded, sitting up.

"Because," George answered, evenly, "it happens to be where one sees
it."

Dalrymple flushed.

"Deuced pretty girl," he said with an affectation of indifference. "Of
course you don't know her."

"I have seen her," George said, shortly.

He felt that a challenge had been passed and accepted. He raised his
voice.

"How about it, Goodhue?"

"Coming."

Dalrymple opened his mouth as if to speak, but Goodhue slipped into the
room, and George and he went down the stairs and climbed into Goodhue's
runabout.

"I didn't know," George said when they had started, "that you lived with
Dalrymple."

"We were put together at school, so it seemed simple to start out here."

George was glad to fancy a slight colour of apology, as if such a
companionship needed a reason.

It was a pleasant and intimate little dinner to which they drove. Mr.
and Mrs. Alston recollected meeting George at the Bailly