"She's the real student," said Swazey fondly. "She gets it all--all the romance of the big things that have gone on in the past. By George, the time'll come when we'll get over to Greece and Egypt and Rome and see something of it ourselves." He put the photographs in his pocketbook and rose, standing, legs spread before the fire, talking to himself. "By George, Dink, money isn't what I'm after. I'm going to have that, but the big thing is to know something about everything that's real, and to keep on learning. I've never had anything like these evenings here, browsing around in the good old books, chatting it over with old Pike--he's got imagination. Give me history and biography--that inspires you. Say, I've talked a lot, but you led me on. What's your story?" "My story?" said Stover solemnly. He thought a moment and then said: "Nothing. It's a blank and I'm a blank. I say, Swazey, give me your hand. I'm proud to know you. And, if you'll let me, I'd like to come over here oftener." He went from the room, with a sort of empty rage, transformed. Before him all at once had spread out the vision of the nation, of the democracy of lives of striving and of hope. He had listened as a child listens. He went out bewildered and humble. For the first time since he had come to Yale, he had felt something real. His mind and his imagination had been stirred, awakened, hungry, rebellious. He turned back, glancing from the lights on the campus to the room he had left--a little splotch of mellow meaning on the somber cold walls of Divinity, and then turned into the emblazoned quadrangle of the campus, with its tinkling sounds and feverish, childish ambitions. "Great heavens! and I went there as a favor," he said. "What under the sky do I know about anything--little conceited ass!" He went towards his entry and, seeing a light in Bob Story's room, suddenly hallooed. "Oh, Bob Story, stick out your head." "Hello, yourself. Who is it?" "It's me. Dink." "Come on up." "No, not to-night." "What then?" "Say, Bob, I just wanted you to know one thing." "What?" "I'm just a plain damn fool; do you get that?" "What the deuce?" "Just a plain damn fool--good-night!" And he went to his room, locked the door to all visitors, pulled an arm-chair before the fire, and sat staring into it, as solemn as the wide-eyed owls on the casters. CHAPTER XVI