He was in the crowded quadrangle now, with fellows all about him with books or note-books under their arms, whistling and singing and hallooing and scraping their feet along the walks just as they had always done. Over in front of Reunion was the usual crowd kicking football and squabbling over their points. The side over by College Offices was shouting exultingly "Nine to seven!" and a fellow on the side near by was announcing with equal conviction, as he turned the ball over in his hands to punt, "Eight to seven." Lawrence found himself saying "Eight to seven," and mechanically watched the ball as it sailed through the air and lodged up in one of the second-story balconies, and stopped to listen to them set up the cry, just as he knew they were going to, "Thank you, up there, please, thank you-u-u!" It struck him as queer that all this was going on just as it always had, without a single variation to show that this day was different from other days. It seemed odd to think that he was not to be a part of this any more. It somehow seemed more odd than sad. He told himself that it would be a great relief to fly far away from it all. Down the walk came a group of his own class-mates, carelessly slouching along from lecture, laughing and joking, with their arms on one another's shoulders. It was Linton and Nolan and Stehman and others. "Hello, there, Harry!" they said and passed on down the walk. Lawrence turned and watched them. He had replied to their salute in his usual manner. It had seemed natural and his voice was in perfect imitation of heartiness, and yet he could not help thinking how little difference it would make to him if they all fell down dead. The sight of them bothered, Nolan's bow legs annoyed him. He hoped he would never see Nolan again. And this was Billy Nolan! The bell was echoing and re-echoing in his ears, and each stroke fairly made him jump. The sight of so many people and the knowledge that there were others behind him were beginning to give him a feeling of distress. He felt that he could not stand having so many people press close to him. It was somehow rattling him. Everything he saw hurt, and he only wanted to get far away from it all. For he told himself that he hated the campus and its life, and everything that had to do with it. The very expression of the buildings was offensive to him. He wanted to upset the wheelbarrow and its sticky contents when old black Jimmie touched his hat to him, and he felt like kicking two innocent seminoles that hurried past with quick, conscientious steps that made their coat-tails flap behind. All of this was nervous nonsense, and he knew it.