ut her hand. "Good-by,
Hugh," she said softly, her lips trembling, her eyes full of tears.

"Good-by, Cynthia," he whispered. And then, foolishly, "Thanks for
coming."

She did not smile but drew her hand from his and mounted the steps. An
instant later she was inside the car and the train was moving.

Numbed and miserable, Hugh slowly climbed the hill and wandered back to
Norry Parker's room. He was glad that Norry wasn't there. He paced up
and down the room a few minutes trying to think. Then he threw himself
despairingly on a couch, face down. He wanted to cry; he had never
wanted so much to cry--and he couldn't. There were no tears--and he had
lost something very precious. He thought it was love; it was only his
dreams.

CHAPTER XXIII

For several days Hugh was tortured by doubt and indecision: there were
times when he thought that he loved Cynthia, times when he was sure that
he didn't; when he had just about made up his mind that he hated her, he
found himself planning to follow her to New Rochelle; he tried to
persuade himself that his conduct was no more reprehensible than that of
his comrades, but shame invariably overwhelmed his arguments; there were
hours when he ached for Cynthia, and hours when he loathed her for
smashing something that had been beautiful. Most of all, he wanted
comfort, advice, but he knew no one to whom he was willing to give his
confidence. Somehow, he couldn't admit his drunkenness to any one whose
advice he valued. He called on Professor Henley twice, intending to make
a clean breast of his transgressions. Henley, he knew, would not lecture
him, but when he found himself facing him, he could not bring himself to
confession; he was afraid of losing Henley's respect.

Finally, in desperation, he talked to Norry, not because he thought
Norry could help him but because he had to talk to somebody and Norry
already knew the worst. They went walking far out into the country, idly
discussing campus gossip or pausing to revel in the beauty of the night,
the clear, clean sky, the pale moon, the fireflies sparkling suddenly
over the meadows or even to the tree-tops. Weary from their long walk,
they sat down on a stump, and Hugh let the dam of his emotion break.

"Norry," he began intensely, "I'm in hell--in hell. It's a week since
Prom, and I haven't had a line from Cynthia. I haven't dared write to
her."

"Why not?"

"She--she--oh, damn it!--she told me before she left that ev