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 ing to an even less tuney etude, "for they happen to be good; in fact the very best there is."

Eric came lounging over and sat beside him. The bench creaked, and Grover recalled the days when Eric, like a tawny lion cub, would sidle up to him in study periods to copy sentences in a Latin exercise, instinctively knowing that his mere proximity was enough to wheedle anything out of anybody. Dutifully Eric looked at a page of the music as if willing to verify its goodness, though he didn't know bass from treble. Then he rested a warm heavy arm on Grover's shoulder and got up.

"You'll always be the same funny kid," he remarked. "Won't you."

"Not exactly," Grover replied, "for I'm getting samer and samer."

"I don't follow you."

Grover smiled with a trace of malice. "You're not even headed the same way!"

"Where the heck you headed?"

"I don't know—possibly toward Parnassus."

"If you mean I'm dumb," Eric cheerfully acknowledged, "that's nothing to write home about." He had gone to swing his club over an imaginary tee, as if proving to himself that he had not remained at a standstill; hadn't he added golf to his accomplishments?

"Speaking of home, what are you doing this week-end?"