He consulted Tough McCarty, as he consulted him now on everything that lay deeper than the lip currency of his fellows. They were returning from a long walk over the early December roads in the grays and drabs of the approaching twilight. Stover had been unusually silent, and the mood settled on him, as, turning the hill, they saw the clustered skyline of the school through the bared branches. "What the deuce makes you so solemncholy?" said Tough. "I was thinking," said Dink with dignity. "Excuse me." "I was thinking," said Dink, rousing himself, "that I've been all wrong." "I don't get that." "I mean The Roman." "How so?" "Tough, you know down at the bottom I have a sneaking suspicion that he's been for me right along. It's a rotten feeling, but I'm afraid it's so." "Shouldn't wonder. Have you spoken to him?" "No." "Why not?" "I'm not sure. And then, I don't know just how to get to it." "Jump right in and tackle him around the knees," said Tough. "I think I will," said Dink, who understood the metaphor. They went up swinging briskly, watching in silence the never stale spectacle of the panorama of the school. "I say, Dink," said Tough suddenly, "Sis is going to put the clamps on that T. Willyboy, Ver Plank." "Really--when?" said Dink, surprised that the news brought him no emotion. "Next month." Stover laughed a little laugh. "You know," he said with a bit of confusion, "I fancied I was terribly in love with Josephine myself--for a little while." "Sure," said Tough without surprise. "Jo would flirt with anything that had long pants on." "Yes, she's a flirt," said Stover, and the judgment sounded like the swish of shears cutting away angels' wings. They separated at the campus and Stover went toward the Kennedy. Half-way there an excited little urchin came rushing up, pulling off his cap. "Well, what is it, youngster?" said Stover, who didn't recognize him. "Please, sir," said the young hero worshiper, producing a photograph of the team from under his jacket, "would you mind putting your name on this? I should be awfully obliged." Stover took it and wrote his name. "Who is this?" "Williams, Jigs Williams, sir, over in the Cleve." "Well, Jigs, there you are." "Oh, thank you. Say----" "Well?" "Aren't you going to have an individual photograph?" "No, of course not," said Stover with only outward gruffness. "All the fellows are crazy for one, sir." "Run along, now," said Stover with a pleased laugh. He stood on the steps, watching the elated Jigs go scudding across the Circle, and then went into the Kennedy. In his box was a letter of congratulation from Miss Dow. He read it smiling, and then took up the photograph and examined it more critically. "She's a dear little girl," he said. "Devilish smart figure." Miss Dow, of course, was very young. She was only twenty. That night, after an hour's brown meditation, he suddenly rose and, descending the stairs, knocked at the sanctum sanctorum.