t to wear heavier flannels, though; it's a perfect scandal what
girls run around in nowadays."

She rested her hands on Sylvia's shoulders lightly, smiled into her
face, and then bent forward and kissed her.

"I don't understand why you won't wear rubbers, but be sure you don't
sit around all evening in wet stockings."

A gray mist was hastening nightfall, though the street lamps were not
yet lighted. The glow of Mrs. Owen's kindness lingered with Sylvia as
she walked toward Elizabeth House. She was constantly surprised by her
friend's intensely modern spirit--her social curiosity, and the breadth
and sanity of her views. This suggestion of a vocational school for
young women had kindled Sylvia's imagination, and her thoughts were upon
it as she tramped homeward through the slush. To establish an
institution such as Mrs. Owen had indicated would require a large sum of
money, and there were always the Bassetts, the heirs apparent of their
aunt's fortune. Any feeling of guilt Sylvia may have experienced by
reason of her enforced connivance with Mrs. Owen for the expenditure of
her money was mitigated by her belief that the Bassetts were quite
beyond the need of their aunt's million, the figure at which Mrs. Owen's
fortune was commonly appraised.

She was thinking of this when a few blocks from Mrs. Owen's she met
Morton Bassett. The electric lamp overhead was just sputtering into
light as he moved toward her out of an intersecting street. His folded
umbrella was thrust awkwardly under his arm, and he walked slowly with
bent head. The hissing of the lamp caused him to lift his eyes. Sylvia
paused an instant, and he raised his hat as he recognized her.

"Good evening, Miss Garrison! I've just been out for a walk. It's a
dreary evening, isn't it?"

Sylvia explained that she had been to Mrs. Owen's and was on her way
home, and he asked if he might go with her.

"Marian usually walked with me at Fraserville, but since we've been
here, Sunday seems to be her busy day. I find that I don't know much
about the residential district; I can easily lose myself in this part of
town."

During these commonplaces she wondered just where their conversation at
Marian's ball had left them; the wet street was hardly a more favorable
place for serious talk than the crowded Propylaeum. The rain began to
fall monotonously, and he raised his umbrella.

"Some things have happened since our last talk," he observed presently.

"Yes?" she