A little behind him strutted Mr.Moseley, sending search-lights of scrutiny over the crowd in order to discover the academy boys who might be wasting their time upon unlettered femininity.
At one side of the amphitheater, raised to a place of honor, was the courting-box.

Here the aristocratic youth of the country-side met to measure hearts, laugh at the rustics, and enjoy the races.
In previous years Sandy had watched the courting-box from below, but this year he was in the center of it.

Jests and greetings from the boys, and cordial glances from maidens both known and unknown, bade him welcome.

But, in spite of his reception, and in spite of his irreproachable toilet, he was not having a good time.

With hands in pockets and a scowl on his face, he stared gloomily over the crowd.
Twice a kernel of pop-corn struck his ear, but he did not turn.
Above him, Annette Fenton was fathoms deep in a flirtation with Carter Nelson; while below him, Ruth, in the daintiest of gowns and the largest of hats, was wasting her sweetness on the desert countenance of Sid Gray.
Sandy refused to seek consolation elsewhere; he sat like a Spartan hero, and calmly watched his heart being consumed in the flames.
This hour, for which he had been living, this longed-for opportunity of being near Ruth and possibly of speaking to her, was slipping away, and she did not even know he was there.
He became fiercely critical of Sid Gray.