“My name is Guthridge. I’m a senior. Come and see me, _any time_. I’ll be glad if I can be of service.” He seemed to be easing himself of a formula as well learned as was his name. Then he left. Quincy remembered that Professor Deering had not invited him to call. How thrilled and happy that would have made him! And here was an invitation he would have gone far in order to avoid--had there been compulsion of accepting it. There were curious ironies in this new life. By the time the train-man had shouted out his station and they had rolled, with airy sighings and steely creakings, to a stand-still, these impressions of the new reality were still swirling inchoate, hectically colored, in his head. He was far from having mastered them. He had not yet even faced them. Yet, here it was! IV The early bewilderments of college did not wear away. They formed a swirling veil through which the unknown features of his new life seemed glamorous and splendid. The pulsing rhythm of so much youth centered about a point gave college a lilt that did not fail to whirl Quincy with it. For a time, the mere sense of motion suffused his consciousness. He was content. And then, he understood. A windstorm in a desert is engrossing. But while one dashed off the onslaught of hot sand, sweeping one’s senses, there might still come stirring through the monotone of sting and color the thought of other action, the doubt of this fight’s good. So, now, with Quincy. Life as he knew it had been largely desert. Here was merely a new stormy stretch. But despite this, his longing for somewhat else grew, as the lack went on. His longing was based upon no fact. It was becoming slowly a basis for all future facts. During the first glamor and the first fright of freshman year, Quincy observed a tone of affability about him in his mates. They, also, were unsure of their position, unsure of the importance of this fellow student, Quincy Burt. And they were cautious. Therefore, they were hospitable, affable. They introduced themselves and asked him to call. Numbers of them called on him. Quincy was touched, excited by this reality of comradeship. But he soon learned that something would rise up, as a barrier, between him and his tentative friends. The feeling of a difference, a gulf of reservation would come upon the onset of an attempt at fellowship. In their talks, these boys seemed to have a definite ideal. And in Quincy’s lack of one, they found an unforgivable distinction. Their ideals were pragmatic and immediate. They referred to foot-ball or to the music-clubs or to golf. It made little difference. But it welded the class together. And it left Quincy out. A few solicitous fellows told him: “You must try for something. It doesn’t matter if you make a team or not--so long as you try.” Quincy was too slight for foot-ball. So he “went out” for the track team. He got the necessary suit and shoes. And he reported.