"I was mistaken, then, after all," with a peculiar direct look. "You don't really know, Sanford didn't announce--I'm surprised. I never fancied he'd miss the opportunity. It's superhuman repression!"

For fully half a minute Mr. Gleason said nothing; then at the interrupting sound of footsteps in the storm vestibule, followed an instant later by the click of a latch-key, he leaned suddenly toward the younger man.

"That's Elice now," he said. The voice was almost childishly hurried and curious. "What was it that you wondered I didn't know, that Sanford didn't announce?"

From under shaded lids Armstrong observed the change and smiled. The smile vanished as a shadow pa.s.sed through the entrance.

"I merely marvelled that the dean didn't announce that there would be no professor of chemistry after another week, the close of the present semester," he said evenly. "That is, until a new one is appointed."

"Steve!" The old man's face went gray,--gray as the face of a believer whose G.o.ds have been offered sacrilege. In the silence the shadow advanced to the doorway of the room itself; very real, paused there waiting, all-seeing, listening. "You mean you're leaving the department then, quitting for good?"

"For good, no, hardly." Again a laugh, but tense now, forced. "Nor quitting. In plain English I mean I'm kicked out, fired. By request, very insistent request, I've resigned." With an effort he met the girl's eyes fairly. "I've babbled my last lecture in college halls, piped my swan song. The curtain is down, the orchestra has packed its instruments. Only the echo now remains."

"Tell me about it, Steve." The old man had gone, dodderingly, on a pitifully transparent pretext. The girl had tossed coat and gloves on one chair and herself had taken another, removing her hat as she spoke.

"Begin at the beginning and tell me what's the matter--what this all means."

"There is no beginning that I know of," with a shrug that fell far short of the indifferent. "What it means I've already told you."

The hat followed the coat, hanging where it caught on the latter by one pin. "Let's not dissimulate for the present," pleaded the girl, "or juggle words. There's a time for everything."

"And the present?"

"Don't, please! As a favor, if you wish. Begin at the beginning."

"I repeat, there is none to my knowledge. There's only an end."

"The end, then," swiftly; "the reason for it. Don't you wish to tell me?"

"No, I don't wish to. I intend to tell you, however. It was all regular, my retirement; no one at fault among the powers that are. I had been warned--and failed to profit. It was very regular."

"Yes, yes; but the reason! Tell me that."

"Certainly. I was just coming to it. I failed to materialize at the department two days in succession. I overslept."

"Steve Armstrong! Steve--what do you fancy I'm made of! Do you mean to tell me or merely to--dissect?"

"No, not dissect, to tell you. That's why I came; to tell you several things, this among the rest. Elice, don't do that, don't cry. Please!--I don't intend to be a brute, I didn't mean anything. I'm simply ashamed to tell you straight from the shoulder. I'm down in the gutter. You'll hear, though, anyway. I might better--I was drunk, irresponsible, two days in succession. That's all."

"You--that way; you, Steve Armstrong!" No tears now, no hysterics; just steady, unbelieving expectancy. "I can't believe it--won't. You're playing with me."

"No, it's true. I won't say 'G.o.d knows it's true.' I'm not dog enough yet to--blaspheme. It's simply true."

"Steve!" The girl was on her feet, half way to him. "I never dreamed, never--You poor boy!"

"Elice, don't--don't touch me. I ask it--don't!"

"What--you can't mean--that!"

"Yes. Sit down, please." The voice was thick. "I have several things to tell you. This was only one."

For long, interminably long it seemed to the watcher, the girl stood where she had paused, midway; the figure of her still, too still, her face shading first red to the ear tips, then slowly colorless as understanding drove home. A half-minute probably, in reality, immeasurably longer to them both it seemed, she stood so. Without a word she went back to her seat, remained there, unnaturally still, her arms, bare to the elbow in half sleeves, forming a great white V as the clasped hands lay motionless in her lap.

For another half-minute no word was spoken, no sound from without drifted into the room. Suddenly the girl turned, her great dark eyes met those of the man, held them steadily.

"You said there was something else you wished to tell me. I can't imagine anything more, anything you didn't tell just now. However, I'm listening."

The man said nothing, nor moved--just looked at her.

"I repeat, I'm listening."

"Yes, I notice." Armstrong pulled himself together absently. "I was thinking of something else; I'd forgotten momentarily. I always was an absent-minded specimen; and lately--I've been worse than usual lately."

The girl merely waited this time, the great brown eyes wide and dry.

"When it comes to telling you, though," stumbled on the man, "what I came to tell you to-night, what I don't wish to tell you but must--Elice, don't look at me, please; don't! My nerve's gone. Don't you wish to ask me questions instead?"

"Perhaps," obediently the girl turned away, "after you've made things clear a bit. Don't fancy I'm trying to make it hard for you. I'm not, only, only--Remember, I'm all in the dark yet, all confused."

"Yes, I know--and I'm to blame. I've been trying for a week to bring myself to tell you, one thing at a time; but I couldn't, and now--everything's tumbled on my head together now."

"Everything? Steve, begin somewhere, anywhere. Don't suggest things; tell me. It's been ten days since you called last. Why was that?"

"I was afraid. I tried to come, but I couldn't."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of you, of myself, of life. I've known that long to a certainty that the play was over between you and me, but I couldn't bring myself to say the word. It's just this I was afraid of. This!"

"You mean to tell me now that all is over?" Unconsciously this time the girl had shifted facing; quietly--again, too quietly--was putting the query direct: "That's what you're telling me now?"

"Yes."

"And why--Am I the cause--have I by word or act--have I?"

"No."

"Is it because you've lost your chair in the University?"

"No."

"Why, then?"

"Because we've ceased to be necessary to each other, have grown apart."

"You think we've changed?... I've not changed."