"Oh, nothing. Only I've met you," he brought out triumphantly. "I met you at dinner, two or three years ago--at your sister's house. We're old friends," he said. "Are we?" I asked in wonder. "Are we old friends?" I wanted to add, "How nice!" He looked so steady and substantial, standing there--so kind and understanding. Any one would prize him for an old friend. I gazed up at him. The drifting mist had covered his broad chest and shoulders with a glistening veil of white. It shone like frost on the nap of his soft felt hat. It sparkled on his eyebrows and the lashes of his fine eyes. "How nice," I wanted to add. But a desire not to flirt with this man honestly possessed me. Besides I must remember I was tired of men. I wanted nothing of any of them. So instead I said, "Well, then, you know what car I need to take." He ignored my remark. "You had on a yellow dress--let's walk along--and wore purple pansies, fresh ones, although it was mid-winter. I remember it distinctly. But a hat and a raincoat today make you look different, and I couldn't get near enough to you in the woods. I remember there was a medical friend of your sister's husband there that night, and Will and he monopolized the conversation. I hardly spoke to you; but tell me, didn't you wear pansies with a yellow dress one night at your sister's?" "Jennings? Are you Bob Jennings?" (Lucy's Bob Jennings! I remembered now--a teacher of English at the University.) "Of course," I exclaimed, "I recall you now. I remember that night perfectly. When you came into my sister's living-room, looking so--so unprofessor-like--I thought to myself, 'How nice for me; Professor Jennings couldn't come; she's got one of the students to take his place--some one nice and easy and my size.' I wondered if you were on the football team or crew, and it crossed my mind what a perfect shame it was to drag a man like you away from a dance in town, perhaps, to a stupid dinner with one of the faculty. And then you began to talk with Will about--what was it--Chaucer? Anyhow something terrifying, and I knew then that you _were_ Professor Jennings after all." "Oh, but I wasn't. I was just an assistant. I'm not a professor even yet. Never shall be either--the gods willing. I'm trying hard to be a lawyer. Circuitous route, I confess. But you know automobile guide-books often advise the longer and smoother road. Do you mind walking? It isn't far, and the cars are crowded." We walked. "I suppose," I remarked a little later, "trying hard to become a lawyer is what keeps your life from being a vacuum." "Yes, that, and a little white-haired lady I call my mother," he added gallantly. "Do you want to know what keeps my life from being a vacuum?" I abruptly asked. "Of course I do!" "Well, then--a little brown Boston terrier whom I call Dandy," I announced.