Randall had concluded a distinguished undergraduate career at Oxford last summer.
He was a man of birth, position, and, to a certain extent, of fortune.
Phyllis Gedge was the daughter, the pretty and attractive daughter, of Daniel Gedge, the socialistic builder who did not hold with war.

What did young Randall mean by walking in the dark with his arm round Phyllis's waist?
Of course as soon as he heard the click-clack of Hosea's hoofs he whipped his arm away; but I had already caught him.
They tried to look mighty unconcerned as I pulled up.

I took off my hat politely to the lady and held out my hand to the young man.
"Good evening, Randall," said I."I haven't seen you for ages." He was a tall, clean-limbed, clear-featured boy, with black hair, which though not long, yet lacked the military trimness befitting the heads of young men at the present moment.

He murmured something about being busy.
"It will do you good to take a night off," I said; "drop in after dinner and smoke a pipe with an old friend." I smiled, bowed again politely, whipped up Hosea and trotted off.

I wondered whether he would come.