She could hardly be some graduate student in philosophy; she was too young and too flossy for that. "Flossy," in Jimmy's economical vocabulary, was a symbol for many subtle shades of meaning: it implied, for any maiden it fitted, an elegance not too cold to be alluring; the possession of that something more than the peace of God which a friend told Emerson always entered her heart when she knew herself to be well dressed. Flossy--to generalize--Jimmy had not observed the women graduate students to be, though he bore them no ill will. To be truly flossy was, after all, a privilege reserved for a chosen few, born to a certain circle which Jimmy had never sought to penetrate. One--and a curiously entrancing specimen--of the chosen evidently stood watching him now, and he wished that her entire self-possession did not so utterly imperil his own. What was she doing alone, anyway, this society girl--in a students' rooming house--at Prof. Farmer's door? Why couldn't she tell him? And why were her eyes making fun of him--or weren't they? His fingers went instinctively to his--perhaps too hastily selected?--cravat. Then Susan really did laugh, but happily, not unkindly, and walked on in past him, shutting the door behind her as she came. "Jimmy Kane," she said, "if I weren't so gorgeously glad to see you again, I could beat you for not remembering!" "Good Lord!" he babbled. "Why--good Lord! You're Susan!" It was all too much for him; concealment was impossible--he was flabbergasted. Sparkling with sheer delight at his _gaucherie_, Susan put out both hands. Her impulsiveness instantly revived him; he seized her hands for a moment as he might have gripped a long-lost boy friend's. "You never guessed I could look so--presentable, did you?" demanded Susan. "Presentable!" The word jarred on him, it was so dully inadequate. "I have a maid," continued Susan demurely. "Everything in Ambo's house--Ambo is my guardian, you know; Mr. Hunt--well, everything in his house is a work of art. So he pays a maid to see that I am--always. I am simply clay in her hands, and it does make a difference. But I didn't have a maid on Birch Street, Jimmy." Jimmy's blue eyes capered. This was American humor--the kind he was born to and could understand. Happiness and ease returned with it. If Susan could talk like that while looking like that--well, Susan was _there_! She was all right. Within five minutes he was giving her a brief, comradely chronicle of the missing years, and when Phil got back it was to find them seated together, Susan leaning a little forward from the depths of a Morris chair to follow more attentively Jimmy's minute technical description of the nature of the steel alloys used in the manufacture of automobiles.