he found that no one else would be in that afternoon. From time to time bright, hard spring showers fell. The sun shone hard and brilliant and then disappeared, chased by another shower.

Two hours later, groggy from reading and correcting a dozen papers, he staggered into his coat, locked the door and left the office. It had been raining again. The sweetness of the chilled air struck him forcefully after the mustiness of the office. Ten minutes later he reached his apartment, read his mail, took a shower, ate dinner, and settled down to grade another pile of student papers. About seven thirty the telephone rang and then rang sharply again before he could answer it. "Hello," he said, somewhat sharply, feeling both annoyed and pleased at being disturbed.

"Hello," the voice at the other end answered with a slight softness and huskiness which the professor knew at once. "Dr. Knight?"

"Yes. Is this Mr. Squire?" So rigid was the habit of storing away encounters which might threaten his existence that he had no idea for a moment why the student had called him.

"Sir, I went to your office at four and you weren't there. After waiting for an hour and a half, I left. I called because I was afraid that I misunderstood you this afternoon, that perhaps I had the wrong hour."

The professor sat down with a thud. "Mr. Squire, I'm sorry, but I forgot. What with the pile of papers I have been grading, our appointment slipped from my mind. I left the office about three-thirty."

"I'm sorry to bother you, sir, but I wanted to hand in that paper tomorrow." Professor Knight hesitated. The archetypal situation loomed threateningly in his mind. What was Squire up to? He, at least, would remain calm. "Well, Mr. Squire, it is my fault. Would you like an extension on the paper? Hand it inafter the last class period?" he asked, cursing himself for putting the student off. Then before he could answer, horrified, the professor found himself saying in a slightly choked voice, "Squire, I live about ten minutes from the campus. Why don't you come up right now. We can go over the paper in a few minutes. Listen, you can find my apartment by..." but at this point the student broke in.

"Yes, sir, I know where your apartment is. I shall come right over." The telephone went dead.

"What have I done." He sat down. He got up and walked about. To keep himself busy lit a cigarette with trembling fingers and immediately threw it away. He touched a match to the wood he had laid in the fireplace weeks before but had never used. He frowned and muttered to himself as the fire hissed, gasped slightly and went out. Another match set it off again, burning slowly. "Fool!" he muttered to himself, and then loudly, "Fool!" The door bell rang.

When he opened the door, Squire was standing so that the light from the porch lamp fell over his head and face lighting up the misty rain which clung to his hair. "Like a willow swept by rain," flashed through the professor's mind. The student's handsomely articulated frame carried the blue sweater he wore over a white shirt opened at the throat with all the grace of unconsciousness. Somehow he seemed even shier than he had in class and failed to return the older man's greeting, saying nothing when he apologized for having forgotten the appointment. He seemed strangely pale and then suddenly flushed.

"So this is what your apartment looks like on the inside," he said huskily as he entered the combination living room and library, warm now from the gently burning fire. "I walk by here several times a week, and I have often wondered what it was like inside." He looked about the room and flushed again when he

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