At twilight, Ramsey was walking meditatively on his way to dinner at the “frat house,” across the campus from his apartment at Mrs. Meig’s.  Everybody was quiet now, both town and gown; the students were at their dinners and so were the burghers.  Ramsey was late but did not quicken his thoughtful steps, which were those of one lost in reverie.  He had forgotten that spring-time was all about him, and, with his head down, walked unregardful of the new gayeties flung forth upon the air by great clusters of flowering shrubs, just come into white blossom and lavender.

He was unconscious that somebody behind him, going the same way, came hastening to overtake him and called his name, “Ramsey!  Ramsey Milholland!” Not until he had been called three times did he realize that he was being hailed—­and in a girl’s voice!  By that time, the girl herself was beside him, and Ramsey halted, quite taken aback.  The girl was Dora Yocum.

She was pale, a little breathless, and her eyes were bright and severe.  “I want to speak to you,” she said, quickly.  “I want to ask you about something.  Mr. Colburn and Fred Mitchell are the only people I know in your ‘frat’ except you, and I haven’t seen either of them to-day, or I’d have asked one of them.”

Most uncomfortably astonished, Ramsey took his hands out of his pockets, picked a leaf from a lilac bush beside the path, and put the stem of the leaf seriously into a corner of his mouth, before finding anything to say.  “Well—­well, all right,” he finally responded.  “I’ll tell you—­if it’s anything I know about.”

“You know about it,” said Dora.  “That is, you certainly do if you were at your ‘frat’ meeting last night.  Were you?”

“Yes, I was there,” Ramsey answered, wondering what in the world she wanted to know, though he supposed vaguely that it must be something about Colburn, whom he had several times seen walking with her.  “Of course I couldn’t tell you much,” he added, with an afterthought.  “You see, a good deal that goes on at a ‘frat’ meeting isn’t supposed to be talked about.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling faintly, though with a satire that missed him.  “I’ve been a member of a sorority since September, and I think I have an idea of what could be told or not told.  Suppose we walk on, if you don’t mind.  My question needn’t embarrass you.”

Nevertheless, as they slowly went on together, Ramsey was embarrassed.  He felt “queer.”  They had known each other so long; in a way had shared so much, sitting daily for years near each other and undergoing the same outward experiences; they had almost “grown up together,” yet this was the first time they had ever talked together or walked together.

“Well—­” he said.  “If you want to ask anything it’s all right for me to tell you—­well, I just as soon, I guess.”

“It has nothing to do with the secret proceedings of your ’frat’,” said Dora, primly.  “What I want to ask about has been talked of all over the place to-day.  Everyone has been saying it was your ‘frat’ that sent the first telegram to members of the Government offering support in case of war with Germany.  They say you didn’t even wait until to-day, but sent off a message last night.  What I wanted to ask you was whether this story is true or not?”