“Pet? My God!” He cast his eyes ceilingward ecstatically.
Hugh’s mind was a battle-field of disapproval and envy. Carl dazzled and confused him. He had often listened to the recitals of their exploits by the Merrytown Don Juans, but this good-looking, sophisticated lad evidently had a technique and breadth of experience quite unknown to Merrytown. He wanted badly to hear more, but time was flying and he had n’t even begun to unpack. “Will you help me bring up my trunk?” he asked half shyly.
“Oh, hell, yes. I’d forgotten all about that. Come on.”
They spent the rest of the afternoon unpacking, arranging and rearranging the furniture and pic¬ tures. They found a restaurant and had dinner. Then they returned to 19 Surrey and rearranged the furniture once more, pausing occasionally to chat while Carl smoked. He offered Hugh a ciga¬ rette. Hugh explained that he did not smoke, that he was a sprinter and that the coaches said that cigarettes were bad for a runner.
“Right-o,” said Carl, respecting the reason thor¬ oughly. “I can’t run worth a damn myself, but I’m not bad at tennis—not very good, either. Say, if you ’re a runner you ought to make a fra¬ ternity easy. Got your eye on one?”
“Well,” said Hugh, “my father’s a Nu Delt.”
