"I told you it wasn't any crime," he said. "Well, maybe it isn't, but Janet," he went on quickly, "while you were standing at the window of the club this afternoon, you saw a man--do you remember? He wore overalls. His face and hands were black. You said you saw a policeman push him back into the crowd, and you believed him to be drunk---- He was drunk, Janet----" "How do you know?" she asked, quite indifferently, "did you see him again?" "Yes, I saw him again," he said. "I saw him in a big restaurant that was crowded with students, men whom I know, whom I have eaten with, whose cheers till now have been--been inspiring to me----" "John--really----" the girl put in impatiently. "I can't see why that drunk man should have made such an impression--that common laborer--nor what he can have to do----" "Wait a moment," he remonstrated. "You remember, when you called my attention to him, I took you out across the field, and down town another way? Yes? Well, I had a reason. I didn't want that drunken man to see me--to see you----" "But, dear," she exclaimed with a little laugh. "It was my father," he said, quietly. "John!" Passion, shock, anger, perhaps pity, were all in the tone of her exclamation. Unconsciously she drew away from him. "Don't be afraid," he said, holding out a hand to her, "I shan't smirch you----" She realized her movement then, and pity filled her heart, pity for this great creature beside her whose own heart, the heart she knew, was like a child's. "Dear," she murmured, "don't think that. Don't. I didn't mean to." He seemed not to notice the plea in her voice. "I don't blame you," he went on as calmly as before, "but it was because I _knew_ you would do just that that I haven't told you before. But now--I can't wait any longer. Listen. My parents are Poles, Janet. My father and mother were born in the same tiny town in Poland a little way from Cracow. They came to this country when I was only five years old--before my sister--my little sister Pauline, was born. My father was a peddler at first; afterward for a time he was a street sweeper; and then, during a strike, a good many years ago, he went into the Stove Works and learned the moulder's trade. It's a good trade, Janet; the men sometimes earn four dollars a day, pouring the hot iron into the sand. My father earns that now----" She had listened to him raptly, the pale light white upon her lifted face. "But John," she exclaimed, "your name--your name isn't foreign?" He laughed. "My name isn't 'Adams,'" he replied. "John!" "No," he went on--"but maybe my name is, too, after all. I should have said 'perhaps.' My father's name is not. It is Adamowski----" He heard her little quick in-taking of breath and looked away. "You have never heard of such things before, have you?" he asked. "But it is a custom with Polish young men nowadays. Their names handicap them in their work, in their advancement, so they often change them." "Yes, I understand," she murmured.