XX. THE NEW POLICY
XXI. THE WAITING GAME




I

A SOCIAL IMPOSSIBILITY


It was one of November's rare days. The kindly air, vital with the
breath of the north wind and mellow with the genial sun, was full of
purple haze; the grass, still vividly green, gave no hint of the
coming winter; the trees, bony and bare but for a few rags of summer
dress, russet-brown and gold, stood softened of all their harshness
in the purple haze and slanting, yellow light of the autumn
afternoon. Nature wore a face of content. She had fulfilled her
course for another year, and, satisfied with her achievement, was
obviously thinking of settling herself into her winter's sleep.

It was a good day to be alive. The tingle in the air somehow got
into the blood.

So it felt to a young girl who danced out from under the trees on
the west boundary of the University campus.

"Oh!" she cried to her statelier, taller sister, who with a young
man followed more sedately into the open. "Oh, what a day! What a
picture!"