Livingston's room wasn't in any sense central, but he liked it because it was quiet, because aside from the family he had the house to himself, and because Mrs.Saunders, his landlady, was goodness itself and administered to his comfort almost as his own mother would have done.
The freshman president laid aside his book, grimaced at the dreary prospect, and took out his watch.

"Ten minutes after five," he murmured.
"Heavens, what a beastly dark day! I'll have to start to get dressed before long.

Too bad we've got such weather for the affair." He glanced irresolutely toward the gas-fixture, and from thence to where his evening clothes lay spread out on the couch.

For it was the evening of the Freshman Class Dinner.

While he was striving to find energy wherewith to tear himself from the soft cushions and make a light, footsteps sounded outside his door, and some one demanded admission.
"Come in!" he called.
The door swung open, was closed swiftly and softly again, and Neil Fletcher crossed the room.