“What is it, Elice? You’re transparent as spring water. Out with it.”

“Out with what, Steve?”

“The secret information of vital importance that you’re holding back with an effort for a favorable moment to deliver. The present isn’t particularly dramatic, I’ll admit, but it’s the best circumstances permit.”

“You’re simply absurd, Steve; more so than usual.”

“No, merely ordinarily observant. I’ve known you some time, and the symptoms are infallible. When you get that absent, beyond-earth look in your eyes, and sit twisting around and around that mammoth diamond ring your uncle gave you on your sixteenth birthday—Come, I’m impatient from the toes up. Who is engaged now?”

“No one, so far as I know.”

“Married, then; don’t try to fool me.”

“Who told you, Steve Armstrong?” 36

“No one.” The accompanying laugh was positively boyish. “I knew it was one or the other. Come, ’fess up. I’ll be good, honest.”

“You get younger every day, Steve,” grudgingly. “If you keep on going backward people will be taking me for your mother soon instead of—merely myself.”

“You shouldn’t go away then, Elice. I’m tickled sick and irresponsible almost to have you back. I’m not to blame. But we’re losing valuable time. I’m listening.”

“You swear that you don’t know already—that you aren’t merely making fun of me?”

“On my honor as full professor of chemistry. I haven’t even a suspicion.”

“I wonder if you are serious—somehow I never know. I’ll risk it anyway, and if you’re just leading me on I’ll never forgive you, Steve, never. It’s Margery.”

“Margery! The deuce it is—and Harry Randall, of course.”

“Certainly. Who’d you think it was: Professor Wilson with his eight children?”

“Now I call that unkind, Elice. After all the interest I’ve shown, too! Honest, though, I am struck all in a heap. I never dreamed of such a thing—now.” 37

The result of the revelation was adequate and Miss Gleason relented.

“It was rather ‘sudden,’ as they say. No one knew of it except their own families.”

“Sudden! I should decidedly say so. I certainly thought they at least were to be depended upon, were standbys. When did it happen?”

“Last evening. Agnes Simpson just told me before you came.”

“She did, did she? I thought she looked wondrous mysterious when I met her down the street. It was justifiable, though, under the circumstances. I suppose they, the Randalls, have gone away somewhere?”

“No; that’s the funny part of it. They haven’t gone and aren’t going.”

“Not at all?”

“No. I’m quoting Agnes.”

“And why aren’t they going? Did Agnes explain that?”

“Steve, you’re horrid again.”

“No; merely curious this time. Agnes is something of an authority, you’ll admit.”

“Yes; I guess I’ll have to admit that. I didn’t ask her, though, Steve Armstrong. She suggested gratis—that Harry couldn’t afford 38 it. They went into debt to buy furnishings for the house as it was.”

“I don’t doubt it. History pays even less than chemistry, and the Lord knows—No; I don’t doubt it.”

“Knows what, Steve?”

“Who knows what?”

“The one you suggested.”

“Oh! I guess you caught the inference all right. No need to have put it in the abstract. We professors of the younger set are all in the same boat. We’d all have to go into debt under like circumstances.”

Elice Gleason meditated.

“But Harry’s been a full professor now a long time,” she commented; “two years longer than you.”

“And what difference does that make? He just lives on his salary.”

“Is that so? I never thought of it that way. I don’t think I ever considered the financial side before at all.”

Armstrong looked his approval.

“I dare say not, Elice; and I for one am mighty glad you didn’t. Life is cheap enough at best without adding to its cheapness unnecessarily.” 39

The girl seemed scarcely to hear him, missing the argument entirely.

“I suppose, though,” she commented reflectively, “when one does think of it, that it’ll be rather hard on Margery to scrimp. She’s always had everything she wants and isn’t used to economizing.”

Armstrong sat a moment in thought. He gave his habitual shrug.

“She should have thought of that before the minister came,” he dismissed with finality. “It’s a trifle late now.”

“They’ve been putting it off for a long time, though,” justified the girl, “and probably she thought—one has to cease delaying some time.”

“Elice! Elice!” Armstrong laughed banteringly. “I believe you’ve got the June bug fluttering in your bonnet too. It’s contagious this time of year, isn’t it?”

“Shame on you, Steve!” The voice was dripping with reproach. “You always will be personal. You know I didn’t mean it that way.”

“Not a bit, honest now?”

“I say you ought to be ashamed to make fun of me that way.”

“But honest—” 40

“Well,” reluctantly, “maybe I did just a bit. We too have been engaged quite a while.”

“Almost as long as the Randalls.”

“Yes.”

The quizzical look left Armstrong’s eyes, but he said nothing.

“And I suppose every woman wants a home of her own. It’s an instinct. I think I understand Margery.”

From out the porch of the Gleason cottage, shaded from the curious by its climbing rose-vines, the girl looked forth at the sputtering electric globe on the corner.

“And, besides, people get to talking and smiling and making it unpleasant for a girl after so long. It was so with Margery. I know, although she never told me. It bothered her.”

“You say after so long, Elice. How long?”

“I didn’t mean any particular length of time, Steve. There isn’t any rule by which you can measure gossip, so far as I know.”

“Approximately, then.”

“Oh, after a year, I suppose. It’s about then that there’s a comment or two sandwiched between the red and blue decks at bridge parties.”

“And we’ve been engaged now three years. Do they ever sandwich—” 41

“How do I know. They don’t do it to one’s face.”

“But Margery—you say they made it uncomfortable for her.”

“Steve Armstrong,” the voice was intentionally severe, “what possesses you to-night? I can’t fancy what put that notion into your head.”

“You did yourself,” serenely, “just now. I never happened to stumble upon this particular continent before, and I’m intent on exploration and discovery. Honest, do they,” he made an all-inclusive gesture, “talk about you and me?”

“I tell you they don’t do those things to our faces.”

“You’re evading the question, girl Elice.”

“They’re not unpleasant intentionally.”

“Still evasion. Out with it. Let’s clear the air.”

The girl drummed on the arm of her chair, first with one hand, then with the other. At last she looked the questioner fairly in the face.

“Frankly, Steve, they do; and they have for a year. But I don’t mind. I didn’t intend to say anything to you about it.”

The look of the boy vanished from the other’s eyes.

“I—see,” he commented slowly. 42

“People are horrid that way, even people otherwise nice,” amplified the girl. “As soon as any one they know has an—affair it immediately becomes public property. It’s almost as bad as a murder case. The whole thing is tried and settled out of court.”

The figure of the man settled down in his chair to the small of his back. His fingers locked over one knee.

“I suppose it was something of that kind Darley had in mind,” he said.

“Darley Roberts? When?”

“We were talking about—similar cases a few days ago.”

“You were?” There was just a shade of pique in the tone. “He must be a regular fount of wisdom. You’re always quoting him.”

“He is,” tranquilly. “By the way, with your permission, he’s going to call with me to-morrow night.”

“With my permission!” The girl laughed. “You’ve solicited, and received, that several times before—and without result. I’m almost beginning to doubt the gentleman’s existence.”

“You won’t much longer. I invited him and he accepted. He always does what he says he’ll do.” 43

“Very well,” the voice was non-committal. “I’m always glad to meet any of your friends.”

Armstrong warmed, as he always did when speaking of Darley Roberts.

“You will be when you know him, I’m sure. That’s why I asked him to come. He’s an odd chap and slow to thaw, but there isn’t another lawyer in town, not even in the department, who’s got his brains.”

“They couldn’t have, very well, could they?” evenly.

“I’ll admit that was a trifle involved; but you know what I mean. He’s what in an undergraduate they call a grind. The kind biographers describe as ‘hewing forever to the line.’ If we live and retain reasonably good health we’ll hear of him some day.”

“And I repeat,” smilingly, “I’ve heard of him a great deal already.”

Armstrong said nothing, which indicated mild irritation.

“Excuse me, Steve,” said the girl, contritely. “I didn’t mean to be sarcastic; that just slipped out. He has acted sort of queer, though, considering he’s your room-mate and—I had that in mind. I am interested, however, really. Tell me about him.” 44

Armstrong glanced at his companion; his gaze returned to his patent leather pumps, which he inspected with absent-minded concentration.

“I have told you before, I guess, about all I know. He’s a good deal of an enigma to me, even yet.”

“By the way, how did you happen to get acquainted with him, Steve?” From the manner spoken the question might or might not have been from genuine interest. “You’ve never told me that.”

“Oh, it just happened, I guess. We were in the collegiate department together at first.” He laughed shortly. “No, it didn’t just happen either after all. I went more than half way—I recognize that now.”

The girl said nothing.

“Looking back,” continued the man, “I see the reason, too. He fascinated me then, as he does yet. I’ve had comparatively an easy enough sort of life. I was brought up in town, where there was nothing particular for a boy to do, and when it came college time my father backed me completely. Darley was the opposite exactly, and he interested me. He was unsocial; somehow that interested me more. I used to wonder why he was so when I first knew him; bit by bit I gathered 45 his history and I wondered less. He’s had a rough-and-tumble time of it from a youngster up.” The voice halted suddenly, and the speaker looked at his companion equivocally. “Still interested, are you, Elice? I don’t want to be a bore.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you the story then as I’ve patched it together from time to time. I suppose he had parents once; but as they never figured, I infer they died when he was young. He came from the tall meadows out West straight to the University here. How he got the educational ambition I haven’t the remotest idea; somehow he got it and somehow he came. It must have been a rub to make it. He’s mentioned times of working on a farm, of chopping ties in Missouri, of heaving coal in a bituminous mine in Iowa, of—I don’t know what all. And still he was only a boy when I first saw him; a great, big, over-aged boy with a big chin and bigger hands. The peculiar part is that he wasn’t awkward and never has been. Even when he first showed up here green the boys never made a mark of him.” Again the short expressive laugh. “I think perhaps they were a bit afraid of him.”

“And he got right into the University?”

“Bless you, no; only tentatively. He had a 46 lot of back work to make up at the academy. That didn’t bother him apparently. He swallowed that and the regular course whole and cried for more.” Armstrong stretched lazily. His hands sought his pockets. “I guess that’s about all I know of the story,” he completed.

“All except after he was graduated.” It was interest genuine now.

“So you have begun to take notice at last,” commented Armstrong, smilingly. “I’m a better raconteur than I imagined. When it comes to being specific, though, after he graduated, I admit I can’t say much authoritatively. He’ll talk about anything, ordinarily, except himself. I know of a dozen cases from the papers, some of them big ones, that he’s been concerned in during the last few years; but he’s never mentioned them to me. He seemed to get in right from the start. How he managed to turn the trick I haven’t the slightest conception; he simply did. As I said before, he grows to be more of an enigma to me all the time.”

Apparently the girl lost interest in the party under discussion; at least she asked no more questions and, dilatory as usual when not definitely directed, Armstrong dropped the lead. For a minute they sat so, gazing out into the night, 47 silent. Under stimulus of a new thought, point blank, whimsical, came a change of subject.

“By the way,” commented Armstrong, “I’m considering quitting the University and going into business, Elice. What do you think of the idea?”

“What—I beg your pardon, Steve.”

The other repeated the question, all but soberly this time.

“Do you mean it, Steve, really, or are you just drawing me out?”

“Mean it!” Armstrong laughed. “Perhaps, and perhaps not. I don’t know. What do you think of the notion, anyway?”

The girl looked at him steadily, a sudden wrinkle between her eyes.

“You have something special in mind, I judge, Steve; something I don’t know about. What is it?”

“Special!” Armstrong laughed again, shortly this time. “Yes, I suppose so; though I didn’t know it when I first asked the question. Now I’m uncertain—you take the suggestion so seriously. Graham, the specialty man, made me an offer to-day to go in with him. Five thousand dollars a year to start with, and a prospect of more later on.” 48

The wrinkle between the girl’s eyes smoothed. Her hands recrossed in her lap.

“You refused the offer, I judge,” she said.

“No; that is, I told him I’d take the matter under advisement.” Armstrong glanced at his companion swiftly; but she was not looking at him and he too stared out into the night. “I wanted to hear what you said about it first.”

“Steve!”

In the darkness the man’s face colored.

“Elice, aren’t you—ashamed a bit to doubt me?”

“No.” She was looking at him now smilingly. “I don’t doubt you. I know you.”

“You fancy I refused point blank, without waiting to tell you about it?”

For the third time the girl’s fingers crossed and interlocked. That was all.

“Elice!” The man moved over to her, paused so, looking down into her face. “Tell me, I’m dead in earnest. Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you absolutely, Steve; but that doesn’t prevent my knowing you.”

“And I tell you I took the matter under advisement.”

“He persuaded you to. You refused at first even to consider it.” 49

Smilingly she returned his injured look fair in the eyes. Still smiling, she watched him as in silence he recrossed slowly to his place.

“Yes, you’re right—as usual,” he admitted at last. “You do know me. Apparently all my friends know me, better than I know myself.” He shrugged characteristically. “But you haven’t answered my question yet. What do you think of my accepting?”

“I try never to think—about the useless. You won’t accept.”

“You may be mistaken, may compel me to against my best judgment.”

“No, you won’t do that. I shan’t influence you in the least.”

For answer Armstrong stood up, his hands deep in his pockets, his shoulders square. A minute perhaps he stood so. Once he cleared his throat. He sat down. An instant later he laughed—naturally, in genuine amusement.

“I surrender, Elice,” he said; “foot, horse, and officers. I can succeed in deceiving myself, easily; but when it comes to you—” He dropped his hands hopelessly. “On the square, though, and between ourselves, do you want me to quit the University and accept this—job? It’s a good lead, I realize.” 50

“I’d rather not say either way,” slowly. “I repeat that it’s useless to disagree, when nothing would be gained.”

“Disagree! We never disagree. We never have in all the time we’ve known each other.”

“We’ve never discussed things where disagreement was probable.”

“Maybe that’s right. I never thought of it before.” A pause. “Has that harmony been premeditated on your part?”

“Unconsciously so, yes. It’s an instinct with me, I think, to avoid the useless.”

Armstrong stared across the dim light of the porch. Mentally he pinched himself.

“Well, I am dumb,” he commented, “and you are wonderful. Let’s break the rule, though, for once, and thresh this thing out. I want your opinion on this Graham matter, really. Tell me, please.”

“Don’t ask me,” repeated the girl. “You’d remember what I said—and it wouldn’t do any good. Let’s forget it.”

“Of course I’d remember. I want to remember,” pressed the man. “You think I ought to accept?”

A moment the girl hesitated; then she looked him fair. 51

“Yes,” she said simply.

“And why? Tell me exactly why, please? You’re not afraid to tell me precisely what you think.”

“No, I’m not afraid; but I think you ought to realize it without my putting it in words.”

Armstrong looked genuine surprise.

“I suppose I ought—probably it’s childishly obvious, but—tell me, Elice.”

“To put it selfishly blunt, then, since you insist, I think you ought to for my sake. If an income you can depend upon means nothing in particular to you you might consider what it would mean to me.”

Unconsciously the lounging figure of the man in the chair straightened itself. The drawl left his voice.

“Since we have stumbled upon this subject,” he said quietly, “let’s get to the bottom of it. I think probably it will be better for both of us. Just what would it mean to you, that five thousand dollars a year?”

“Don’t you know, Steve, without my telling you?”

“Perhaps; but I’d rather you told me unmistakably.”

As before the girl hesitated, longer this time; 52 involuntarily she drew farther back until she was completely hidden in the shadow.

“What it means to me you can’t help knowing, but I’ll repeat it if you insist.” She drew a long breath. Her voice lowered. “First of all, it would mean home, a home of my own. You don’t know all that that means because you’re a man, and no man really does understand; but to a woman it’s the one thing supreme. You think I’ve got one now, have had all my life; but you don’t know. Father and I live here. We keep up appearances the best we can; we both have pride. He holds his position in the University; out of charity every one knows, although no one is cruel enough to tell him so. We manage to get along somehow and keep the roof tight; but it isn’t living, it isn’t home. It’s a perpetual struggle to make ends meet. His time of usefulness is past, as yours will be past when you’re his age; and it’s been past for years. I never admitted this to a human being before, but I’m telling it to you because it’s true. We’ve kept up this—fight for years, ever since I can remember, it seems to me. We’ve never had income enough to go around. I haven’t had a new dress in a year. I haven’t the heart to ask for it. Everything I have has been darned and patched 53 and turned until it won’t turn again. It isn’t poverty such as they have on the East Side, because it isn’t frank and open and aboveboard; but it’s genteel poverty in the best street of the town: University Row. It’s worse, Steve, because it’s unadmitted, eternally concealed, hopeless. It isn’t a physical hunger, but again a worse one: an artistic hunger. I’m a college graduate with letters on the end of my name when I choose to use them. I’ve mixed with people, seen the niceties of life that only means can give, couldn’t help seeing them; and they’re all beyond my reach, even the common ones. If I didn’t know anything different I shouldn’t feel the lack; but I do know. I’m not even to blame for knowing. It was inevitable, thrust upon me. I’m the hungry child outside the baker’s window. I can look and look—and that is all.”

The voice ceased. Frankly, unhesitatingly, the face came out of the shadow and remained there.

“I think you understand now what I mean, Steve, unmistakably. I suppose, too, you think me selfish and artificial and horrid, and I shan’t deny it. I am as I am and I want things. To pretend that I don’t would be to lie—and I 54 won’t lie to you whatever happens. I simply won’t. We both know what your place in the University means; I perhaps better than you, because I’ve seen my father’s experience. I don’t often get bitter, but I come very near it when I look back and think how my mother had to plan and scrimp. I feel like condemning the whole University to the bottomless pit. I suppose Margery Randall would resent it if I told her so, but honestly I pity her; the more so because I’ve always envied her in a way. She’s not used to denying herself anything, and there’s bound to be a reckoning. It’s inevitable, and then—I don’t like to think of how it will be then. It’s a tragedy, Steve, nothing more or less.”

Opposite the man sat motionless in his place looking at her. All trace of his usual lounging attitude was absent. He was not even smoking. For almost a full minute after she was done he sat; then he arose abruptly. This time he did not offer to come over to her.

“So this is the way you feel,” he commented at last, slowly. “It’s a new phase of you entirely, Elice, that I admit; but at least I’m glad to know it.” He thrust his hands deep into his pockets. “In plain English, you’d barter my position and ambition gladly for—things. 55 Frankly I didn’t think that of you, Elice, before. I imagined I knew you better, knew different.”

Responsive, instinctively the girl started to rise. Her breath came quick. Swiftly following came second thought and she sank back, back into the shadow. She said nothing.

A moment the man waited, expecting an answer, a denial, something; when nothing came he put on his hat with meaning deliberation.

“I repeat I’m very glad you told me, though, even if I do have to readjust things a bit.” He shrugged his shoulders. Despite the wounded egotism that was urging him on, it was the first real cloud that had arisen on the horizon of their engagement and he was acutely self-conscious. “Rest assured, however, that I shall consider your point of view before I say yes or no to Graham. Just now—” He halted, cleared his throat needlessly; abruptly, without completing the sentence or giving a backward glance, he started down the walk. “Good-night, Elice,” he said.