her things. She was all alone in there.

He stepped in. He pushed the door shut, and stood there leaning
against it, looking at her, saying nothing.

"Oh--you are ill?" she gasped, and laid a frightened hand upon him.

The touch crazed him. All resistance gone, he swept her into his
arms; he held her fiercely, and between sobs kissed her again and
again. He could not let her go. He frightened her. He hurt her. And
he did not care--he did not know.

Then he held her off and looked at her. And as he looked into her
eyes, passion melted to tenderness. It was she now--not he;
love--not hunger. Holding her face in his two hands, looking at her
as if getting something to take away, his white lips murmured words
too inarticulate for her to hear. And then again he put his arms
around her--all differently. Reverently, sobbingly, he kissed her
hair. And then he was gone.

He did not come out that Sunday afternoon, but Harold dropped in
instead, and talked of some athletic affairs over at the university.
She wondered why she did not go crazy in listening to him, and yet
she could answer intelligently. It was queer--what one _could_
do.

They had come at last to Z. There would be no more work upon the
dictionary after that day. And it was raining--raining as in Chicago
alone it knows how to rain.