"If I'm in my right mind I'll be swatting."
"Like to have you come home with me; I'm driving up Friday night."
After all these years! How often Grover had dreamt of coming down broad slippery stairs to breakfast at Eric's; of riding Eric's horse; of borrowing his blue sweater after a game of tennis! He had even imagined the haunting smell of the soap in Eric's bathroom. Scales fell from his eyes and he saw why invitations had been rare in his life; he saw why he had never been "popular,"—it was because he didn't do things you could whistle, because he couldn't take casually what to others was casual, nor seriously what to them was serious. To him friendship was precious and exclusive; to them it was cheap and gregarious. They, feeling themselves drawn, went forward; he drew back, or ran a mile, awed by the depth and intimacy of his feelings. And it dawned on him that many people, even Pep, might have been glad of a sign now and then, from him! It would never have occurred to him to invite Eric home with him, yet how often had he not imagined Eric in the little house in Aldergrove, driving from the station in the old-fashioned car that had to be cranked, waiting his turn at the one and only bath!
"Thanks awfully," he said. "I'd like to, but I have to work. And even if I didn't, I'm due home myself." And even if he didn't have to go home, he was think-
