He wanted very much to tell Carl about Janet, but for several weeks the opportunity did not present itself. There was too much excitement about the campus; the mood of the place was all wrong, and Hugh, although he didn't know it, was very sensitive to moods and atmosphere. Finally one night in October he and Carl were seated in their big chairs before the fire. They had been walking that afternoon, and Hugh had been swept outside of himself by the brilliance of the autumn foliage. He was emotionally and physically tired, feeling that vague, melancholy happiness that comes after an intense but pleasant experience. Carl leaned back to the center-table and switched off the study light. "Pleasanter with just the firelight," he said quietly. He, too, had something that he wanted to tell, and the less light the better. Hugh sighed and relaxed comfortably into his chair. The shadows were thick and mysterious behind them; the flames leaped merrily in the fireplace. Both boys sat silent, staring into the fire. Finally Hugh spoke. "I met a girt this summer, Carl," he said softly. "Yeah?" "Yeah. Little peach. Awf'lly pretty. Dainty, you know. Awf'lly dainty--like a little kid. You know." Carl had slumped down into his chair. He was smoking his pipe and staring pensively at the flames. "Un-huh. Go on." "Well, I fell pretty hard. She was so--er, dainty. She always reminded me of a little girl playing lady. She had golden hair and blue eyes, the bluest eyes I've ever seen; oh, lots bluer than mine, lots bluer. And little bits of hands and feet." Carl continued to puff his pipe and stare at the fire. "Pet?" he asked dreamily. "Uh-huh. Yeah, she petted--but she was kinda funny--cold, you know, and kinda scared. Gee, Carl, I was crazy about her. I--I even wrote her a poem. I guess it wasn't very good, but I don't think she knew what it was about. I guess I'm off her now, though. She's too cold. I don't want a girl to fall over me--my last girl did that--but, golly, Carl, Janet didn't understand. I don't think she knows anything about love." "Some of 'em don't," Carl remarked philosophically, slipping deeper into his chair. "They just pet." "That's the way she was. She liked me to hold her and kiss her just as long as I acted like a big brother, but, criminy, when I felt that soft little thing in my arms, I didn't feel like a big brother; I loved her like hell.... She was awfully sweet," he added regretfully; "I wish she wasn't so cold." "Hard luck, old man," said Carl consolingly, "hard luck. Guess you picked an iceberg." For a few minutes the room was quiet except for the crackling of the fire, which was beginning to burn low. The shadows were creeping up on the boys; the flames were less merry. Carl took his pipe out of his mouth and drawled softly, "I had better luck."