He was particularly polite to the other girl, because his impulse was to act so very differently. There is nothing cloistral about the University of Chicago except its architecture. The presence of a fat abbot, or a lady prioress in the corridor outside the recitation room would have fitted in admirably with the look of the warm gray walls and the carven pointed arches of the window and door casements, the blackened oak of the doors themselves. On the other hand, the appearance of the person whom Rose found waiting for her out there, afforded the piquant effect of contrast. Or would have done so, had the spectacle of him in that very occupation not been so familiar. He was a varsity half-back, a gigantic blond young man in a blue serge suit. He said, "Hello, Rose," and she said, "Hello, Harry." And he heaved himself erect from the wall he had been leaning against and reached out an immense hand to absorb the little stack of note-books she carried. She ignored the gesture, and when he asked for them said she'd carry them herself. There was a sort of strategic advantage in having your own note-books under your own arm--a fact which no one appreciated better than the half-back himself. He looked a little hurt. "Sore about something?" he asked. She smiled widely and said, "Not a bit." "I didn't mean at me necessarily," he explained, and referred to the fact that the professor had detained her after he had dismissed the class. "What'd he try to do--call you down?" There was indignation in the young man's voice--a hint of the protector aroused--of possible retribution. She grinned again. "Oh, you needn't go back and kill him," she said. He blushed to the ears. "I'm sorry," he observed stiltedly, "if I appear ridiculous." But she went on smiling. "Don't you care," she said. "Everybody's ridiculous in March. You're ridiculous, I'm ridiculous, he"--she nodded along the corridor--"he's plumb ridiculous." He wasn't wholly appeased. It was rather with an air of resignation that he held the door for her to go out by. They strolled along in silence until they rounded the corner of the building. Here, ceremoniously, he fell back, walked around behind her and came up on the outside. She glanced up and asked him, incomprehensibly, to walk on the other side, the way they had been. He wanted to know why. This was where he belonged. "You don't belong there," she told him, "if I want you the other way. And I do." He heaved a sigh, and said "Women!" under his breath. _Mutabile semper_! No matter how much you knew about them, they remained incomprehensible. Their whims passed explanation. He was getting downright sulky. As a matter of fact, he did her an injustice. There was a valid reason for her wanting him to walk on the other side. What gave the appearance of pure caprice to her request was just her womanly dislike of hurting his feelings. There was a small boil on the left side of his neck and when he walked at her left hand, it didn't show.