"I've no idea what your difficulty is, Dave," Mr. Sothron continued. "I know only that Alice came home early this morning and has shut herself in her room ever since. She seems to think it is serious. But of course," he said, pleasantly and confidently and yet putting a question into his tone, "it's not."
"No, sir," Dave protested. "It's not."
"That's good."
"Yes, sir." Dave stirred, gripping his hands. That's good, Mr. Sothron had said. So opposition to him was really gone. It loosed something in Dave which sent a flood of warmth over him. "Can I see Alice now, sir? Won't you tell her that I'm here?"
Mr. Sothron gazed at him. "Not yet." But for a few moments, Mr. Sothron would not tell why; he sat there, slight-looking in his big chair, with his clear gray eyes studying Dave; and after a moment, Dave ceased to meet them. Dave's eyes lifted to Mr. Sothron's smoothly brushed, grayish hair, then glanced to his knees over which his trousers turned trimly, and Dave noticed, as he often had before, the smallness and slenderness of Mr. Sothron's feet. Alice's were unusually small; and so were her hands, like her father's. And, with this thought, Dave's mind jumped to Fidelia and he wondered who she was like, who gave her her glorious red hair and her strong, beautiful body.
"What was the trouble?" Mr. Sothron questioned directly.
"What?" said Dave. "It was a girl who came to college this term whom—whom Alice imagines I've—I've—" he stopped.
