He was approaching a corner. It was a very familiar corner. There on the left, ridiculously close to the sidewalk, was the brown house from the lilac bush in the scant front yard of which he and Florence had often, of an evening, stolen armfuls of the fragrant blossoms. A street car dragged along, its one flat wheel thumping, thumping, thumping, with a deadly sort of iteration. Standing there, he lighted another cigarette. When would he be here again, he mused. Perhaps in five years he might come back to a class reunion. Five years would bring many changes, many confusing changes. The lilac bush, for instance, might not be there in the front yard of the brown house. He recalled the changes the four years he had lived in Ann Arbor had brought to the vicinity of his freshman rooming-house. Come to think of it, he could not even now, familiar as he was with the town, remember whether that house stood in Ingalls or Thayer Streets. He could find the place, certainly; that is, he might locate it after a bit, but---- "Houston, you're a fool!" He upbraided himself aloud, unconsciously. Then, flinging away his half-burned cigarette, he turned the corner and walked briskly down the street. The maid admitted him and he waited in the little round room. The shades were low and the place was filled with shadows, shadows that made the close walls seem very far apart, and the teak wood bookcase quite remote. To satisfy himself of the illusion Houston thrust one foot forward until it touched the lowest shelf. He settled back among the cushions on the circular seat, then, quite satisfied. He heard the soft, cool swish of skirts on the stairs and the next instant the _portières_ parted and framed Florence. In passing she had opened the outer door and the light, streaming about her, as for an instant she stood there, filled the little room with a soft, white glow that seemed to radiate from her. He did not move; gazed at her simply before she glided silently to where he sat, and stooping, kissed him. She held her cheek close to his an instant then drew away, and moving to the window raised one of the shades. Her face was turned from him. "Jove!" he muttered, "but you're beautiful, Florence--in that--in that blue thing." She turned, at his exclamation, and a little pale ghost of a smile hovered about her lips. She came to him and sat beside him and took one of his hands in both hers. "Jack, what is it?" she asked, quietly. Their eyes met as she spoke, and before his could fall, she said: "Tell me, tell me what it is----" It seemed to him, that instant, that he ceased to breathe. He fairly wrenched his eyes from hers. "Flo"--it was not often of late that he called her by this name of his own invention--"Flo, I--I----" "Tell me," she whispered, leaning toward him. "Flo, it's all off." He got up quickly and strode out into the hallway, and back again.