“I was going to look you up,” he cried enthusiastically. “I’m taking a couple of weeks off. If you’ll sit down a sec I’ll be right with you. Going to take a shower.” As he vanished into the bathroom his visitor’s dark eyes roved nervously around the room, resting for a moment on a great English travelling bag in the corner and on a family of thick silk shirts littered on the chairs amid impressive neckties and soft woollen socks. Gordon rose and, picking up one of the shirts, gave it a minute examination. It was of very heavy silk, yellow, with a pale blue stripe--and there were nearly a dozen of them. He stared involuntarily at his own shirt-cuffs--they were ragged and linty at the edges and soiled to a faint gray. Dropping the silk shirt, he held his coat-sleeves down and worked the frayed shirt-cuffs up till they were out of sight. Then he went to the mirror and looked at himself with listless, unhappy interest. His tie, of former glory, was faded and thumb-creased--it served no longer to hide the jagged buttonholes of his collar. He thought, quite without amusement, that only three years before he had received a scattering vote in the senior elections at college for being the best-dressed man in his class. Dean emerged from the bathroom polishing his body. “Saw an old friend of yours last night,” he remarked. “Passed her in the lobby and couldn’t think of her name to save my neck. That girl you brought up to New Haven senior year.” Gordon started. “Edith Bradin? That whom you mean?” “’At’s the one. Damn good looking. She’s still sort of a pretty doll--you know what I mean: as if you touched her she’d smear.” He surveyed his shining self complacently in the mirror, smiled faintly, exposing a section of teeth. “She must be twenty-three anyway,” he continued. “Twenty-two last month,” said Gordon absently. “What? Oh, last month. Well, I imagine she’s down for the Gamma Psi dance. Did you know we’re having a Yale Gamma Psi dance to-night at Delmonico’s? You better come up, Gordy. Half of New Haven’ll probably be there. I can get you an invitation.” Draping himself reluctantly in fresh underwear, Dean lit a cigarette and sat down by the open window, inspecting his calves and knees under the morning sunshine which poured into the room. “Sit down, Gordy,” he suggested, “and tell me all about what you’ve been doing and what you’re doing now and everything.” Gordon collapsed unexpectedly upon the bed; lay there inert and spiritless. His mouth, which habitually dropped a little open when his face was in repose, became suddenly helpless and pathetic. “What’s the matter?” asked Dean quickly. “Oh, God!” “What’s the matter?” “Every God damn thing in the world,” he said miserably. “I’ve absolutely gone to pieces, Phil. I’m all in.” “Huh?” “I’m all in.” His voice was shaking. Dean scrutinized him more closely with appraising blue eyes. “You certainly look all shot.”