College resumed its mechanical paces; Quincy went through them poorly. His marks fell to dangerously near the point of failing. But he sustained them, barely, as he sustained the business of taking food and sleep. Garsted was gone. He had graduated and Quincy rejoiced in his absence. It would have been impossible to talk with him. It would have been more difficult with him about, to remain hedged in his solitude, as he desired. And so, through the fall, his feelings fought each other. There was no giving out. The conflict was within, mute, targetless, internecine. At times, his repulsion for Julia paled before mad lapses into passion. These turned upon him, smote him and sent him shuddering back into repulsion. There had been no word of her, no glimpse of her. He knew with clearness, only that this was his own doing. The Professor he saw twice weekly, in his class. But he was so easily aloof on his high platform, fronting a score of boys, that this habitual sight was nothing. There had been months of his silence. And then, one day--without preamble--Quincy went out to see Julia Deering. It was not his old passion; nor his still older love. It was a need--all of his energies centered upon seeing her--no more. He rang the bell. And while the maid left him waiting in the hall, he stood consumed by his fears of disgrace and by a miserable effort to hold up his head. The maid returned with word that she was out. He walked away, every fiber of him straining against the direction of his walking, reiterant that she was there and that, with a little force, he might have seen her. Next day, he returned. And upon his fourth attempt, the maid with a bland smile of sympathy showed him into the little over-decorated room. And now, she stepped within. Deliberately, her back toward him, she shut the door. Then, she faced about. “I decided after all,” she said, “to let you see me. The first time you came I was here. The other two times, I was really out. How are you?” He did not answer, so full he was of looking at her. She seemed older. The drawn skin below her eyes was flushed and feverish. Her eyes were immeasurably deep and soft--as if some psychic lance had pierced them. Her body was strained forward. It seemed to tremble as does a delicate blade of steel when it resounds. Surely, this was an ineffably lovely thing that he had lost! For he had lost her. Her lips showed that, in their quivering strength; ere she had spoken. And her hands showed that, in their calm mastery,--and the backward jerk of her shoulders and the cold fullness of her hair. This was no lover; this was a creature without his ken, whom he had wounded. For every vibrance of her voice and form seemed a response, not to his need, not to his love, not even to his weakness, but to his hurt. He stood there, forgetful of himself. And all of the words that were spoken came from her.