d by that extraordinary and seductive vision of Betty in
tears. It came with him late the next morning back into the light.
Sylvia's portrait was locked in a drawer far across the campus. What
superb luxury to lie here with such a recollection, forecasting no near
physical effort, quite relaxed, dreaming of Betty, who had always meant
rest as Sylvia had always meant unquiet and absorbing struggle.

He judged it wise to pretend to be asleep, but hunger at last made him
stir and threw him into an anxious agitation of examinations by
specialists, of conferences with coaches, and of doubts and prayers and
exhortations from everyone admitted to the room; for even the
specialists were Princeton men. They were non-committal. It had been a
nasty blow. There had been some concussion. They would guarantee him in
two weeks, but of course he didn't have that long. One old fellow turned
suspiciously on Green.

"He was overworked when he got hurt."

"I'll be all right," George kept saying, "if you'll fix a headgear to
cover my new soft spot."

And finally:

"I'll be all right if you'll only leave me alone."

Yet, when they had, Squibs came, totally forgetful of his grave problems
of the classes, foreseeing no disaster nearly as serious as a defeat by
Yale--"now that we've done so well against Harvard, and would have done
better if you hadn't got hurt"--limping the length of the sick-room
until the nurse lost her temper and drove him out. Then Goodhue arrived
as the herald of Josiah Blodgett, of all people.

"This does me good," George pled with the nurse.

And it did. For the first time in a number of weeks he felt amused as
Blodgett with a pinkish silk handkerchief massaged his round, unhealthy
face.

"Thought you didn't like football," George said.

"Less reason to like it now," Blodgett jerked out. "Only sensible place
to play it is the front yard of a hospital. Thought I'd come down and
watch you and maybe look up what was left afterward."

George fancied a wavering of the little eyes in Goodhue's direction, and
became even more amused, for he believed a more calculating man than
Blodgett didn't live; yet there seemed a real concern in the man's
insistence that George, with football out of the way, should spend a
recuperative Thanksgiving at his country place. George thought he would.
He was going to work again for Blodgett next summer.

Betty and Mrs. Bailly were the last callers the nurse would give in to,
althou