The sun set, as Professor Gordon closed his copy of Maeterlinck. A twilight mist began to form above the surface of the garden pool. “How much more noble are the flowers than we,” he mused. “As Shakespeare says, ‘Men have died from time to time, and worms have eaten them, but not for love.’” His athletic young guest narrowed his gray eyes and stared inwardly at the vision conjured up by the older man’s reading. “I wonder,” he breathed. Professor Gordon broke the spell by saying in a matter-of-fact tone, “Well, my boy, you are to see tonight the mating of vallisneria, a sight which my colleagues would give their eye-teeth to witness.” “I feel flattered——” Spencer began diffidently, shifting his broad shoulders in an embarrassed manner. But the fine-featured old man silenced him with a deprecatory, “Don’t, then! You are more outstanding as a football player than as a student of botany. I invited you for other reasons than any outstanding ability you may have shown in your four years of studies under me.” (Spencer thought, “Most likely to rub in on his colleagues his non-invitation of them, by asking instead a mere athlete, who is taking botany merely because it’s a cinch course.”) Meanwhile the professor was continuing, “I am sorry that I can’t stay out here with you. The mists affect my throat. And I’m sorry my daughter Natalie isn’t here either. She helps me take care of the plants, and you’d find her quite intelligent about them. But she had to go over to her aunt’s.” “I shouldn’t think she’d care to miss——” “Oh, it’s an old story with Natalie. She’s seen the phenomenon before. And now I must caution you about one thing. Don’t go any nearer the pool than the edge of the terrace. The flowers, when in bloom, exude a strong narcotic fragrance, which is rather dangerous. Anyhow, you can see quite clearly from here.” He rose, and held out one slender blue-veined hand. “Good night, sir,” said Spencer, taking the frail hand in his big strong one. “And thank you for inviting me.” * * * * * Tom Spencer eased his athletic frame down into one of the terrace chairs, and gazed abstractedly at the purpling pink of the western sky. “Just as well that that brat of his isn’t here tonight,” he mused. “What on earth could I do to amuse her?” He remembered having seen Natalie Gordon several times during his Freshman year, hanging around the door of the Botany Building at Morningside Heights, waiting for her father. A gawky, pug-nosed, freckle-faced, little thing, with two tightly braided pigtails—about fourteen or fifteen years old, so he judged. Just as well the brat wasn’t here.