He saw Betty Alston once more before college opened, unexpectedly,
briefly, and disturbingly; but with all that he carried again to his
lodging an impression of a distracting contact.

He was out for a morning run, wearing some ancient flannels Bailly had
loaned him, and a sweater, for autumn's first exhilaration sharpened the
air. Sylvia's bulldog barked joyously about him as he trotted through a
lane not far from the Alston place. He often went that way, perhaps
because its gates were already half open. As he turned the corner of a
hedge he came face to face with Betty. In a short skirt and knitted
jacket she was even more striking than she had been at the Bailly's. The
unexpected encounter had brought colour to her rather pale face. The
bulldog sprang for her. George halted him with a sharp command.

"I am not afraid of him," she laughed. "Come here, savage beast."

The dog crawled to her and licked her fingers. George saw her examining
the animal curiously.

"I hope he didn't frighten you," he said, his cap in his hand.

She glanced up, and at her voice George straightened, and turned quickly
away so that she couldn't see the response to her amazing question. Was
it, he asked himself, traceable to Old Planter's threats. Were they
going to try to smash him at the start and keep him out of Princeton?

"Do you happen," Betty had said, frowning, "to know Sylvia Planter, or,
perhaps, her brother, Lambert?"

George didn't care to lie; nor was it, his instinct told him, safe to
lie to Betty. She knew the Planters, then. But how could Old Planter
drive him out except through his parents? He wasn't going to be driven
out. He turned back slowly. In Betty's face he read only a slight
bewilderment.

"That's a queer thing to ask," he managed.

"The dog," she said, caressing the ugly snout, "is the image of one
Sylvia Planter was very fond of. Sylvia and I were at school together
last year. I've just been visiting her the last few days. She said she
had given her dog away."

She drew the dog closer and read the name on the collar.

"Roland! What was the name of her dog?"

George relaxed.

"That dog," he said, harshly, "belongs to me."

She glanced at him, surprised, releasing the dog and standing up. It
wasn't Old Planter then, and his parents were probably safe enough; but
had Sylvia, he asked himself angrily, made a story for her guest out of
his unwary declaration and his abrupt vanishing from Oakmont? Did