him was as a married man with a family somewhere and faint memories of
the days when he was a student and used to flirt with a girl called Rose
something--Rose Stanton, that was it!

It was during one of the interminable waking hours of last night that
she had thought of the half-back as a person who might be able, and
willing, to do her the service she wanted, and she had spent a long
while wondering how she could get track of him. Then the logic of the
calendar had forced the conviction on her, that he was, in all
probability still at the university, dozing through recitations, or
lounging about the corridors, in a blue serge suit and a sweater with a
C on it, waiting for some other girl to come out of her class-room; and
that between the hours of ten-fifteen and eleven, it was altogether
likely that she'd find him again, as she had so many times in the past,
at his fraternity house, going through the motions of getting up an
eleven o'clock recitation. It was absurd enough now to find herself
calling the old number and asking again for Mr. Haines. The dreamlike
unreality of it grew stronger, when the voice that answered said, "Just
a minute," and then bellowed out his old nickname--"Hello, Tiny! Phone!"
and, after a wait, she heard his own very deep bass.

"Hello. What is it?"

"Hello, Harry," she said. "This is Rose Aldrich. Do you remember
me?--Rose Stanton, you know."

The ensuing silence was so long, that she said "Hello" again to make
sure that he was still there.

"Y--yes," he said. "Of--of course I haven't forgotten. I--I only ...