So it was Crowley--Jim Crowley the penitent, yet the sceptical--who brought them together, just as it was Crowley who waited, who counted the days, who watched. II From the walk he saw them on the tennis courts one evening a week later. Unobserved he watched their movements; the girl's lithe, graceful; Houston's, strong, manly. He was serving and Crowley noted the swift sweep of his white arm, bare almost to the shoulder, and was thrilled. Florence had slipped the links in her sleeves and rolled her cuffs back to dimpled elbows and her forearms were brown from much golf. Crowley approached the players after a moment and they joined him at the end of the net. The flush on the girl's face gave her beauty a radiance that he could not recall ever having noticed before. Usually Florence was marbly calm. Houston was warm, glowing. "Gad, you're a fine pair; I've been watching you," Crowley blurted. The girl shot him one swift glance, then her lips parted over her strong, white, even teeth, as she laughed. "Aren't we?" she cried gaily--"just splendid----" And made a playful lunge at him with the raquet. "Venus and Adonis playing tennis, eh?" Crowley said. "Oh, cut it out," Houston exclaimed. "They didn't play tennis, did they?" Florence asked. "He ought to know," Houston put in, "he's working for that Rome scholarship--but he'll never get it any more than I shall the Athens...." "They used to play hand ball--the gods did----" Crowley explained professorily. "And in a court, too. I suppose your tennis is merely a survival of that old Greek game." The three sat at the edge of the court while Crowley discoursed learnedly upon the pastimes of the ancient Greeks. The deep throated bells in the Library Tower rang out the hour of eight across the maples and the amateur lecturer rose lazily. "Do you want to go down town, Jack?" he asked indifferently. Had Houston known how breathlessly Crowley hung upon his answer he would not have taken so long to make it. As it was he glanced up at his room-mate and across at Florence whose eyes met his with a look of inquiry. He looked away then and Crowley glanced at the girl, and in her eyes he seemed to see a challenge. "He's not going down town," she said, quite definitely, though still smiling; "he's going home with me." Crowley shrugged his shoulders. "Are you, Jack?" he asked. "She says so," was the light reply. "Well, as I'm not invited I guess I had better be moseying along." "Oh, you can come if you want to," Florence said naïvely. "Oh, ho; if I want to! Well I guess not!" Crowley exclaimed and moved away, calling over his shoulder: "Good-night to you--Venus and Adonis." "Isn't he a good sort?" Florence asked as the youth's tall figure disappeared around the corner of the red museum. "Ripping!" Houston replied emphatically, "only I wish he weren't such an old Dryasdust...."