his illness--that he was going to make "a fool of himself."
He remembered how the girl had cried; he thought of the way the
boys had loaded him with honor and affection; he heard the
president's voice speaking those impossible words about him--
about him--and he would have given a large sum of money at one or two
junctures to bolt and get behind a locked door alone where he might
cry as the girl had. But the unsentimental hilarity all around saved
him and brought him through without a stain on his behavior. Only he
could not bolt--he could not get a moment to himself for love or money.
It was for love he wanted it. He must find her--he could not wait now.
But he had to wait. He had to go into the country to dinner with
them all and be lionized and made speeches at, and made fun of, and
treated as the darling child and the pride and joy and--what was harder
to bear--as the hero and the great man of the class. All the time
growing madder with restlessness, for who could tell if she might
not be leaving town! A remnant of the class ahead crossed them--
and there was Brant, her brother. Diplomacy was not for Johnny
McLean--he was much too anxious.

"Brant, look here," and he drew him into a comparative corner.

"Where is she?" Brant did not pretend not to understand,
but he grinned.

"At the Andersons', of course."

"Now?"

"Yes, I think so."