“What is your college?”

Maurice trying to get Rose’s eye, so that he might talk to her and give the boys a chance to do their duty, said, distractedly, “Princeton.  Say, Hastings!  Tell Mrs. Ellis about the miner who lost his shirt—­”

Mrs. Ellis looked patient, and Hastings, dropping into agonized shyness, said, “Oh, I can’t tell stories!”

After that, except for Morton’s philosophical outpourings to the listening Eleanor, most of the dreary occasion of eating poor food, served by a waiter who put his thumb into things, was given up to the stifled laughter of the girl and boys, and to conversation between the other two guests, who were properly arch because of the occasion, but disappointed in their dinner, and anxious to shake their heads and lift shocked hands as soon as they could get out of their hostess’s sight.

For Maurice, the whole endless hour was a seesaw between the past and the present, between his new dignity and his old irresponsibility.  He tried—­at first with boisterous familiarity, then with ponderous condescension—­to draw his friends out.  What would Eleanor think of them—­the idiots!  And what would she think of him, for having such asinine friends?  He hoped Mort was showing his brains to her!  He mentally cursed Hastings because he did not produce his jokes; as for Brown, he was a kid.  “I oughtn’t to have asked him!  What will Eleanor think of him!” He was thankful when dessert came and the boys stopped their fatuous murmurings to little Rose, to gorge themselves with ice cream.  He talked loudly to cover up their silence, and glanced constantly at his watch, in the hope that it was time to pack ’em all off to the theater!  Yet, even with his acute discomfort, he had moments of pride—­for there was Eleanor sitting at the head of the table, silent and handsome, and making old Mort crazy about her!  In spite of those asses of boys, he was very proud.  He had simply made a mistake in inviting Hastings and Brown; “Tom Morton’s all right,” he told himself; “but, great Scott! how young those other two are!”

When the evening was over (the theater part of it was a success, for the play was good, and Maurice had nearly bankrupted himself on a box), and he and Eleanor were alone, he drew her down on the little sofa of their sitting room, and worshiped.  “Oh, Star, how wonderful you are!”

“Did I do everything right?” She was breathless with happiness.  “I tried so hard!  But I can’t talk.  I never know what to say.”

“You were perfect!  And they were all such idiots—­except Mort.  Mort told me you were very temperamental, and had a wonderful mind.  I said, ’You bet she has!’ The old ladies were pills.”

“Oh, Maurice, you goose!...  Maurice, what will Mr. Houghton say?”

“Hell say, ‘Bless you, my children!’ Nelly, what was the matter with the dinner?”

“Matter?  Why, it was perfect!  It was”—­she made a dash for some of his own words—­“simply corking!  Though perhaps Rose was a little too young for it.  Didn’t you enjoy it?” she demanded, astonished.