delicate, well-bred hands clasping arms, while the man
comforted her awkward unhappily, with hopeless, futile
caresses.

Peter, shocked and miserable at what he had seen, backed
steadily away. What disaster had befallen the old couple he
could not imagine. The idea that he himself might in any way
connected with their grief never entered mind. He was certain
only that, whatever the trouble was, it was something so
intimate and personal that no mere outsider might dare to
offer his sympathy. So on tiptoe he retreated down the garden
walk and, avoiding the celebration at the bonfire, returned
to his rooms. An hour later the entire college escorted him
to the railroad station, and with "He's a jolly good fellow"
and "He's off to Philippopolis in the morn--ing" ringing in
his ears, he sank back his seat in the smoking-car and gazed
at the lights of Stillwater disappearing out of his life. And
he was surprised to find that what lingered his mind was not
the students, dancing like Indians round the bonfire, or at
the steps of the smoking-car fighting to shake his hand, but
the man and woman alone in the cottage stricken with sudden
sorrow, standing like two children lost in the streets, who
cling to each other for comfort and at the same moment
whisper words of courage.

Two months Later, at Constantinople, Peter, was suffering
from remorse over neglected opportunities, from prickly heat,
and from fleas. And it not been for the moving-picture man,
and the poker and baccarat at the Cercle Oriental, he would
have flung himself into the Bosphorus. In the mornings with