On the last night of his first term, Mr. Margotson, the senior master, sent word to study hall that Amory was to come to his room at nine. Amory suspected that advice was forthcoming, but he determined to be courteous, because this Mr. Margotson had been kindly disposed toward him.

His summoner received him gravely, and motioned him to a chair. He hemmed several times and looked consciously kind, as a man will when he knows he’s on delicate ground.

“Amory,” he began. “I’ve sent for you on a personal matter.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ve noticed you this year and I—I like you. I think you have in you the makings of a—a very good man.”

“Yes, sir,” Amory managed to articulate. He hated having people talk as if he were an admitted failure.

“But I’ve noticed,” continued the older man blindly, “that you’re not very popular with the boys.”

“No, sir.” Amory licked his lips.

“Ah—I thought you might not understand exactly what it was they—ah—objected to. I’m going to tell you, because I believe—ah—that when a boy knows his difficulties he’s better able to cope with them—to conform to what others expect of him.” He a-hemmed again with delicate reticence, and continued: “They seem to think that you’re—ah—rather too fresh——”