Do tell me who is 'An Unknown' who is going to fight that darling Snub—run, you'll be late!"

    The bell had stopped, the trembling note of the organ quivered in the still air, and Barry gathered up his gown and sprinted. He hoped she would be waiting when chapel ended, and was the first to leave after the final "amen." She was standing where he had left her, but Sellinger was with her, and, forgetful of the admirable charity toward all men which he had so recently intoned, Barry cursed Sellinger most heartily.

    John Sellinger lived in Rindle; his ancestors had founded Rindle School, and he himself assumed the style and manner and mental attitude of hereditary patron saint to the school. He was tall, overtopping Barry by six inches, florid, well fed, and prosperous. He was good-looking too, in a heavy, aquiline way. And he made no secret that his patronage of Rindle might extend to acquiring relationship with its headmaster.

    "Morning, Tearle. I suppose you didn't see the fight?"

    "No, I didn't see the fight," said Barry savagely. "Have I nothing better to do—did you?" he asked suddenly.

    "Yes, rather—I was just telling Vera all about it. Wonderful fellow, Reilly. Smaller even than you."

    "Is it possible?" asked Barry, affecting an extravagant surprise. "Could you see him?"

    "Don't be sarcastic," said Mr. Sellinger. "Of course you could see him—you don't see much of him from where I sat, he doesn't stand still long enough, but, boy, he's a fighter!"

    "So the papers say," said Barry wearily.

    "As to the unknown idiot who wants to fight him——"

    "Good morning," said Barry shortly, and with a lift of his hat went on.

    "Curious fellow that." Sellinger shook his head. "Can't quite make him out, Vera."

    "Mr. Sellinger." Her tone was very quiet.

    "Yes, Vera?"

    "Will you please not call me by my Christian name?"

    He was surprised and hurt.

    "But, my dear child——"

    "But I'm not your dear child," she said in the same voice. "I'm not even a child."

    He drew himself erect, for he was a Sellinger of Rindle; and Sellingers of Rindle have drawn themselves erect for several centuries at the mere suggestion that they could not do just what their sweet fancy dictated.

    "Of course, if you wish it, Ve—Miss—er—Shaw; by all means. I'm sorry if I've offended you."

    He was not sorry except for himself, of course; but it was the kind of reply that a representative of the oldest family in the county should make.

    "You haven't offended me—only I don't like it. Why do you think that Mr. Tearle is curious?"

    "Well," he hesitated, "a schoolmaster isn't the best paid professional in the world, and yet Tearle lives in style, has a car of his own, is always dressed well."

    She looked at him in that weary, patient way which women can make so offensive.

    "Other people have money—you have money, and yet it isn't curious," she said coldly. "Or do you think it is curious because you haven't got it all?"

    He smiled indulgently.

    "How like you to defend him!" he said, and before indignation could permit an appropriate reply he went on: "Did your father say whether the School Extension Committee was meeting at the usual hour?"

    She shook her head and half turned to go.

    "I wish——" he began, and stopped.

    "You wish?"

    "Well"—this time his halt of speech was less natural—"I wish that other arrangements would be made about——"

    "About what?" She was exasperated by his studied hesitations, but she was curious.

    "About the money that has been raised for the school extension. It is a tremendous sum for a—well, for an ill-paid master to handle."

    He knew he had made a mistake before the words were out, for the girl's face had gone from crimson to white as the drift of his meaning appeared.

    "Do you"—she was breathless, and her voice sounded strange even to her—"do you—mean to suggest that Mr. Tearle—gets his money for motor-cars… oh, it's too absurd—too wicked—how dare you!"

    He blinked at her in amazement. He had never regarded her as anything but a soft, fluffy, kitteny thing, and a possible ornament to his gloomy house. He looked aghast upon a fury; her gray eyes, dark with passion, her lips straight drawn and unbecoming. That is the impression he carried away with him—her mouth was unbecoming in anger.

    "My dear——" he began.

    "You must have an evil mind to think such things," she flamed. "I hate you!"

    He stood as a man petrified until she had disappeared through the porch of Dr. Shaw's study. Then he pulled up his collar, and stalked haughtily through the schoolhouse gate.

    "Very unbecoming," he spluttered to himself. "Very unladylike… very unnecessary…"

    Vera Shaw saw him depart from the window of her bedroom, and made faces at him which were unbecoming and certainly unladylike. Then she sat on the edge of her bed and wept bitterly. Which was unnecessary.

    Dr.