pleted room presented to the eye a series of violent incongruities. The Japanese print tacked close beside a mad red poster entitled Passion. A ballet-girl pointing a lofty toe at Rossetti's Dying Beatrice. A stein suspended on a string hovering close to the celebrated smile of Mona Lisa. . . . And, in the bookshelf, Whiz Bang and The Life of Christ placed snugly side by side. . . .
College, after the first tremendous to-do and confusion, began slipping along as smoothly and normally as though it had never halted to let its young three thousand play. The first week passed in a swift kaleidoscope of classes and lectures and football rallies and "bull sessions" and busyness. The second week went more slowly. Crawled, in fact. Saturday—the Saturday of the opening game, to which Yvonne was coming—dangled at the end of it tantalizingly, like a prize hard to capture. Jock was amazed at the impatience with which he awaited Saturday. "I must be in love with that girl!" he told himself several times.
He thought of her almost continually, remembering, wondering, puzzling. He longed to know who and what she was, and yet subconsciously he was delighted not to know. She was mysterious—an enigma in a world of transparent women.
Long ago Jock had divided all femininity into six classes, somewhat as follows:
There were the Come-On girls. They were always brushing against you and stroking the lapel of your coat, and lifting their eyelashes slo-o-owly. When you danced with them you were aware of a slight flurry in
