Last night was Conant night at the Dunster House. The towen lights were on, there were native spring chickens and Country Club ice-cream, and three long, candle-lit tables, at which stood 250 of Dunster House's finest, waiting patiently for the guest of honor, the imposing dignitaries, and associates who would gingerly descend the flight of steps from Professor Greenough's own lodgings. Just at this moment, the President walked into the dining room through the regular entrance on the court, which, ordinarily would have been perfectly proper had it not been Conant night, looked about pleasantly, and when no one payed the slightest attention to him, straightened his tie quite nonchalantly, as if to say, "All right for you," and started to walk out. Catching sight of the departing guest, a trembling tutor rushed up, and explained to the President that he must take his coat and hat, and trot around outside the building to Professor Greenough's house. A few minutes later, the door to the Master's house at the other and of the dining hall, opened and the Presidential party marched in, quite according to Hoyle.
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