They went into the Biltmore--a Biltmore alive with girls--mostly from
the West and South, the stellar debutantes of many cities gathered for
the dance of a famous fraternity of a famous university. But to Gordon
they were faces in a dream. He gathered together his forces for a last
appeal, was about to come out with he knew not what, when Dean
suddenly excused himself to the other man and taking Gordon's arm led
him aside.

"Gordy," he said quickly, "I've thought the whole thing over carefully
and I've decided that I can't lend you that money. I'd like to oblige
you, but I don't feel I ought to--it'd put a crimp in me for a month."

Gordon, watching him dully, wondered why he had never before noticed
how much those upper teeth projected.

"I'm--mighty sorry, Gordon," continued Dean, "but that's the way it
is."

He took out his wallet and deliberately counted out seventy-five
dollars in bills.

"Here," he said, holding them out, "here's seventy-five; that makes
eighty all together. That's all the actual cash I have with me,
besides what I'll actually spend on the trip."

Gordon raised his clenched hand automatically, opened it as though it
were a tongs he was holding, and clenched it again on the money.

"I'll see you at the dance," continued Dean. "I've got to get along to
the barber shop."