Frances looked around at the open littered desk, the ink-crusted pen and splashed blotter and loose papers, at the thin oak partition of the walls covered with calendars and sporting prints. She was sobered. "I don't know," she said suddenly; "I am going to see. Good-by, thank you!" She hurried out, she had just missed her car. She waited at the corner impatiently. It was long past the noon, the long string of carriages which had filled the street at an earlier hour was gone, the shops up and down looked deserted, some belated driver drove briskly past, an empty buggy or two waited here and there; the autumn sun blazed on houses and pavement. "Were you going to leave me?" The tone was distinctly resentful. "Why--" It nearly slipped her lips that, having started alone, she expected to return alone; and though she caught the words before their utterance, the look of her thought showed so plainly on her face that the young man read it easily enough. "We are at least going the same way," he said stiffly. "Yes," said Frances weakly, making for the car which was at last in sight. He assisted her in and seated himself by her side; and though the car was deserted save for motorman and conductor, he found he had nothing to say, nor had she either. They rode silently up the street, over the high bridge spanning the railroad, between the twin guardians of the University's approach--Chancellor's and Anderson's--out to the University gates. But it was not in Lawson to be silent, a winsome young woman by his side, along any such road as the white, winding way under the scarlet maples and russet oaks, through the grounds to her father's door. "What do you do on Sunday?" he began tentatively. "Sunday! That's the busiest day in the week. We go to Sunday school, church--that's in the morning; school again in the afternoon at the mission; then we go for a walk, father and I." "You never go driving Sunday?" "Driving! that's one thing father is emphatic about; he will never allow Starlight out of the stables on Sunday." Lawson set his teeth. He had no thought of Starlight when he spoke of driving next day, and was half angered that she was so unconscious of his meaning. "And in the evening?" he asked, for the sake of saying something. "We go to church again." He saw plainly there was not a moment for him unless it was made, and that the young woman had no thought of making it. "Then I shall not see you for a day or two." Glimpses about quadrangle or doorway he counted as nothing. "Good-by!" He held out his hand with elaborate courtesy. Frances laid her own, heavily gloved in his for an instant and looked him frankly in the eyes. "Good-by!" she said. "What a ride it was, but--" a little sigh was on her lips as she opened the heavy door. Susan, watching for the young woman's approach, keeping her dinner warm and warming her own wrath as well, saw the leave-taking.