“You’re a spoiled boy,” said Mrs. Saintsbury.

“But I want Mrs. Pasmer to see the room of a real student—­a reading man, and all that—­and we’ll come, to humour you.”

“Well, come upon any theory,” said young Mavering.

His father, and Professor Saintsbury, who had been instructed by his wife not to lose sight of her, were at hand, and they crossed to that old hall which keeps its favour with the students in spite of the rivalry of the newer dormitories—­it would be hard to say why.

Mrs. Pasmer willingly assented to its being much better, out of pure complaisance, though the ceilings were low and the windows small, and it did not seem to her that the Franklin stove and the aesthetic papering and painting of young Mavering’s room brought it up to the level of those others that she had seen.  But with her habit of saying some friendly lying thing, no matter what her impressions were, she exclaimed; “Oh, how cosy!” and glad of the word, she went about from one to another, asking, “Isn’t this cosy?”

Mrs. Saintsbury said:  “It’s supposed to be the cell of a recluse; but it is cosy—­yes.”

“It looks as if some hermit had been using it as a store-room,” said her husband; for there were odds and ends of furniture and clothes and boxes and handbags scattered about the floor.

“I forgot all about them when I asked you,” cried Mavering, laughing out his delight.  “They belong to some fellows that are giving spreads in their rooms, and I let them put them in here.”

“Do you commonly let people put things in your room that they want to get rid off?” asked Mrs. Pasmer.

“Well, not when I’m expecting company.”

“He couldn’t refuse even then, if they pressed the matter,” said Mrs. Saintsbury, lecturing upon him to her friend.

“I’m afraid you’re too amiable altogether, Mr. Mavering.  I’m sure you let people impose upon you,” said the other lady.  “You have been letting us impose upon you.”

“Ah! now that proves you’re all wrong, Mrs. Pasmer.”

“It proves that you know how to say things very prettily.”

“Oh, thank you.  I know when I’m having a good time, and I do my best to enjoy it.”  He ended with the nervous laugh which seemed habitual with him.

“He, does laugh a good deal;” thought Mrs. Pasmer, surveying him with smiling steadiness.  “I suppose it tires Alice.  Some of his teeth are filled at the sides.  That vein in his forehead—­they say that means genius.”  She said to him:  “I hope you know when others are having a good time too, Mr. Mavering?  You ought to have that reward.”

They both looked at Alice.  “Oh, I should be so happy to think you hadn’t been bored with it all, Mrs:  Pasmer,” he returned;—­with-deep feeling.

Alice was looking at one of the sketches which were pretty plentifully pinned about the wall, and apparently seeing it and apparently listening to what Professor Saintsbury was saying; but her mother believed from a tremor of the ribbons on her hat that she was conscious of nothing but young Mavering’s gaze and the sound of his voice.