Sylvia flushed.  “I don’t see what that has to do with his son.  It’s not fair to judge a young man by his father—­or by anything but what he is himself—­you yourself are always saying that, if the trouble is that the father is poor or ignorant or something else tiresome.”

Professor Marshall said cautiously, “From what I hear, I gather that the son in this case is a good deal like his father.”

“No, he isn’t!” cried Sylvia quickly.  “He may have been wild when he first came up to the University, but he’s all right now!” She spoke as with authoritative and intimate knowledge of all the details of Fiske, Jr.’s, life.  “And anyhow, I don’t see what difference it makes, what the Colonel’s reputation is.  I’m just going up there with a lot of other young people to have a good time.  Eleanor Hubert’s invited, and three or four other society girls.  I don’t see why we need to be such a lot more particular than other people.  We never are when it’s a question of people being dirty, or horrid, other ways!  How about Cousin Parnelia and Mr. Reinhardt?  I guess the Fiskes would laugh at the idea of people who have as many queer folks around as we do, thinking they aren’t good enough.”

Professor Marshall sat down across the table from his daughter and looked at her.  His face was rather ruddier than usual and he swallowed hard.  “Why, Sylvia, the point is this.  It’s evident, from what your mother tells me of Mrs. Fiske’s visit, that going to this house party means more in your case than with the other girls.  Mrs. Fiske came all the way to La Chance to invite you, and from what she said about you and her stepson, it was evident that she and the Colonel—­” He stopped, opening his hands nervously.

“I don’t know how they think they know anything about it,” returned Sylvia with dignity, though she felt an inward qualm at this news.  “Jerry’s been ever so nice to me and given me a splendid time, but that’s all there is to it.  Lots of fellows do that for lots of girls, and nobody makes such a fuss about it.”

Mrs. Marshall laid down her work and went to the heart of the matter.  “Sylvia, you don’t like Mr. Fiske?”

“Yes, I do!” said Sylvia defiantly, qualifying this statement an instant later by, “Quite well, anyhow.  Why shouldn’t I?”

Her mother assumed this rhetorical question to be a genuine one and answered it accordingly.  “Why, he doesn’t seem at all like the type of young man who would be liked by a girl with your tastes and training.  I shouldn’t think you’d find him interesting or—­”

Sylvia broke out:  “Oh, you don’t know how sick I get of being so everlastingly high-brow!  What’s the use of it?  People don’t think any more of you!  They think less!  You don’t have any better time—­nor so good!  And why should you and Father always be so down on anybody that’s rich, or dresses decently? Jerry’s all right—­if his clothes do fit!”