ardor of pursuit. And if kindness of heart alone would not have prompted the attentions he showed to the forgotten, a certain cynical amusement and pride aided this devotion; he saw that where he turned, others followed, and that if at a party he singled out the plainest girl for his conspicuous attention, within an hour men would be nagging her for dances. The popular girls were piqued and hurt by his neglect of them, but he caused the heart of many a desponding mother to beat high with hope. From the gay months of this winter he derived a compassionate friendliness for those whom he had rescued from neglect and disappointment, a contemptuous friendliness for the young men of society who had shown an eagerness to follow his lead. His grandmother was disturbed and puzzled by the obvious sincerity of his indifference. She knew him to be an emotional boy, a boy who had seen little of girls, a boy who in this first year ought to be even perilously susceptible to feminine charm.
She invited to dinner the eight girls whom she considered the most attractive in Avalon; she placed Floyd between Marion Clark and May Pennington. He called them Marion and May, they called him Floyd, because they had played children's games together twelve years before. In reality Floyd knew them hardly more than if he had just been introduced. Marion made a remark to this effect: "You certainly don't know me," she said, "and I don't believe you know Mrs. Evans."
"Mrs. Who?" asked Floyd.
"Mrs. Evans,—sitting next to you."
May Pennington, hearing the words, turned her head.
"Why, if there is n't my old friend Mrs. Morse!" she exclaimed; and at that both girls giggled a moment to Floyd's bewilderment.
"What's the joke?" he said to Marion.
"Oh, something foolish," she answered. "I suppose it's mean to tell—but I will. Do you know Jim Morse and Lawrence Evans? Well, May thinks Mr. Evans is
