For the "novelty"—as Stephanie called it—of last night’s fever had not been a novelty to her alone. Never before had he been so deeply moved, so swept off his feet, so regardless of a self-control habitual to him. Perhaps anger and jealousy had started it. But these ignoble emotions could not seem to account for the happiness that hearing her voice had just given him. Even the voice of a beloved sister doesn’t stir a young man to such earnest and profound reflection as that in which he was now immersed, indifferent even to the dinner hour, which had long been over. "I believe," he said aloud to himself, "that I’m falling very seriously in love with Steve.... And if I am, it’s a rather desperate outlook.... She _seems_ to be in love with Grismer—damn him! ... I don’t know how to face such a thing.... She’s married him and she doesn’t live with him.... She admits frankly that he fascinates her.... There _are_ women who never love.... I seem to want her, anyway.... I _think_ I do.... It’s a mess! ... Why in God’s name did she do such a thing if she wasn’t in love with him—or if she didn’t expect to be? Is she in love with him? She isn’t with _me_.... I’m certainly drifting into love with Steve.... Can I stop myself? ... I ought to be able to.... Hadn’t I better?" He stood still, thinking, the street lamps’ rays outside illuminating his room with a dull radiance. Presently he switched on the light, seated himself at the desk, and wrote: STEVE, DEAR: I am falling in love with you very seriously and very deeply. I don’t know what to do about it. JIM. He was about to undress and retire late that night when a letter was slipped under his door: You sentimental and adorable boy! What is there to do? The happiest girl in New York, very sleepy and quite ready for bed, bids you good night, enchanted by your note. STEVIE. *CHAPTER XXI* To have returned after three years abroad and to have slipped back into the conventional life of the circles to which he had been accustomed in the city of his birth might not have been very easy for Cleland. To readjust himself among what was unfamiliar proved easier, perhaps. For his family circle existed no longer; the old servants were gone; the house had been closed for a long time now. At his college club unfamiliar faces were already in the majority, men of his own time having moved on to the University, Union, Racquet and Knickerbocker, leaving the usual residue of undesirables and a fresh influx from his college. And he was too young in letters to be identified yet with any club which meant anything except the conveniences of a hotel. Among friend and acquaintances of his age there had been many changes, too; much shifting and readjustment of groups and circles incident to marriages and deaths and the scattering migration ever in progress from New York.