a feature lacking in the regular bedrooms. Loring was seated in an armchair close to one of the windows, and for once the almost inevitable rug was missing. Clif's gaze fell instantly from the boy's face to his legs. They looked like any other fellow's, he thought in some surprise; and then he noticed that there was something just a little awkward in the way the feet were placed. Most fellows cross their legs when at ease, but Loring's were not crossed, and the well-polished brown shoes rested flat on the rug rather as though they were somehow independent of the relaxed form in the chair. Loring saw Clif's downward glance and rightly interpreted the expression of interest on the visitor's countenance, but he only said: "Take the easy chair, Bingham. Wattles, shove it over here, will you? You needn't have bothered about the paper. Are you quite through with it?"
"Yes, thanks." Clif was resolutely keeping his eyes away from his host. "You look pretty comfortable here, Deane."
"Yes, the room is really very nice. We could do with a little more space, but we're not suffering. Help yourself to the paper, Wattles. Wattles, you see, Bingham, is always restless until he gets the paper and learns the football scores."
"Really?" Clif looked across at the man with some surprise. "So you're a football bug—er—Wattles."
"Oh, it isn't our game he's interested in," Loring laughed. "What he wants to read is that the Stoke
