was a collar like the "Covington."

Gordon was in something of a panic. He wanted the money immediately.
And he was now inspired also with a vague idea of attending the Gamma
Psi dance. He wanted to see Edith--Edith whom he hadn't met since one
romantic night at the Harrisburg Country Club just before he went to
France. The affair had died, drowned in the turmoil of the war and
quite forgotten in the arabesque of these three months, but a picture
of her, poignant, debonnaire, immersed in her own inconsequential
chatter, recurred to him unexpectedly and brought a hundred memories
with it. It was Edith's face that he had cherished through college
with a sort of detached yet affectionate admiration. He had loved to
draw her--around his room had been a dozen sketches of her--playing
golf, swimming--he could draw her pert, arresting profile with his
eyes shut.

They left Rivers' at five-thirty and parsed for a moment on the
sidewalk.

"Well," said Dean genially, "I'm all set now. Think I'll go back to
the hotel and get a shave, haircut, and massage."

"Good enough," said the other man, "I think I'll join you."

Gordon wondered if he was to be beaten after all. With difficulty he
restrained himself from turning to the man and snarling out, "Go on
away, damn you!" In despair he suspected that perhaps Dean had spoken
to him, was keeping him along in order to avoid a dispute about the
money.