Roger nodded. "I thought you'd remember. You were one of the younger boys at St. Martin's--you haven't changed much, but I couldn't be sure." Gordon hesitated. "I thought I heard from someone that you entered the Church." "I had a church in the South--for three years." Gordon tried to keep the curiosity out of his voice. "And you gave it up?" "Yes. I gave it up." That was all. Not a word of the explanation for which he knew Gordon was waiting. Nothing but the bare statement, "I gave it up." They talked a little of St. Martin's after that, of their boyish experiences. But Roger was conscious that Gordon was weighing him, and asking of himself, "Why did he give it up?" The two men were sitting on the stone bench where Roger had so often sat with Mary. The garden was showing the first signs of the season's blight. Fading leaf and rustling vine had replaced the unspringing greenness and the fragrant growth of the summer. There were, to be sure, dahlias and chrysanthemums and cosmos. But the glory of the garden was gone. Then into the garden came Mary! She was wrapped in a thin silken, scarlet cloak that belonged to Constance. As she passed through the broad band of light made by the street lamp. Roger had a sudden memory of the flame-like blossoming of a certain slender shrub in the spring. It had been the first of the flowers to bloom, and Mary had picked a branch for the vase on his table in the Tower sitting-room. "Constance wants you, Gordon," Mary said, as she came nearer; "some one has called up to arrange about a dinner date, and she can't decide without you." She sat down on the stone bench, and Roger, who had risen at her approach, stood under the hundred-leaved bush from which all the roses were gone. "Do you know," he said, without warning or preface, "that it seemed to me that, as you came into the garden, it bloomed again." Never before had he spoken thus. And he said it again. "When you came, it was as if the garden bloomed." He sat down beside her. "Is any one going to claim you right away? Because if not, I have something I want to say." "Nobody will claim me. At least I hope nobody will. Grace Clendenning is telling Porter about the art of woman's dress. She takes clothes so seriously, you know. And Porter is interested in spite of himself. And Barry and Leila are on the terrace steps, looking at the moon over the river, and Aunt Frances and Aunt Isabelle and General Dick are in the house because of the night air, so there's really no one in the garden but you and me." "Just you--and--me----" he said, and stopped. She was plainly puzzled by his manner. But she waited, her arms wrapped in her red cloak. At last he said, "Your brother-in-law and I went to school together." "Gordon?" "Yes. St. Martin's. He was younger than I, and we were not much together. But I knew him. And after he had puzzled over it, he knew me." "How interesting."