You don’t know how interesting he is, Connie. It’s not every day a girl can meet a man who is crazy about her before he even knows her.”

In the end Constance gave in and promised, as Doris had been confident she would. But Doris would have been amazed if she had known what made her do it. Just the sudden sight of a little, withered blue flower lying on the rug at her foot, a little faded flower that had slipped away from the rest and remained behind to linger with a memory of a windswept hillside and the dawn of a dewy sunlit morning.

Constance saw it with a dart of remembrance, put out her foot quickly, casually, and covered the little crumbling flower, grinding it into the rug. But the vision of the tall stranger with the light of the morning in his eyes and the blue flowers in his hand had done its work. All her worries of the night before seemed suddenly to rush back upon her. Well, why not one stranger as well as another? And perhaps this new one would be able to drive out the vision of the other and bring peace back to her soul again.

So, reluctantly, she consented, telling Doris firmly that she would do it this one time, but that she must never again make any promises for her.

Doris hugged her ecstatically and went joyously on her way to her next class. Constance tried to bring her mind back to her thesis, but it would whirl on in circles until she got up in despair and carefully brushed every vestige of the little dead flower from the rug. Then she sat down and went vigorously to work at her thesis once more, telling herself that she would simply refuse to think at all of that incident of Easter. She would plunge into work and play—any play that offered itself during the few weeks that remained—and get rid of this ridiculous obsession.

So with the lingo of the classroom and the patter of the campus, Constance lashed her startled conscience into quiescence once more and went forth into each day welcoming any diversion whether of work or play that would make her forget utterly her doldrums, as she called them.

But college life began to sweep in a strong tide and left no room for repining. There was much to be done in the next few weeks, for commencement was almost upon them. There were rehearsals and speeches and invitations and clothes to discuss and plan. Each day was more than full. Shoes and gloves, white dresses and rainbow-colored dresses, caps and gowns, and all the other paraphernalia of commencement. There were class meetings galore, presents for teachers and graduating classmates, fraternity meetings and business, much discussion about pledging new members. It was all most absorbing and fascinating.

Constance was swept along with the rest with little time for dreaming or harking back to Seagrave and what had happened at Easter.

One day she asked Doris: “Well, how about this thriller that I’m to take to the dance Saturday night? You’ve raved a lot about him, but you haven’t even told me his name.”

“Oh, surely I have!” said Doris, laughing. “It’s Thurlow Phelps Wayne.” Doris pronounced the syllables impressively.

“Why the Phelps?” asked Constance dryly. “Wasn’t Thurlow enough to uphold the Wayne prestige?”

“Oh, you, you make me tired!” said Doris in a vexed tone. “Here I’ve gone and got you a man with a real background and you make fun of him before you’ve even seen him.”

“Well, isn’t that better than doing it after I’ve seen him?” mocked Constance. It still went against the grain to take up with any of Casper Coulter’s friends. She felt that Casper Coulter was a bad influence in Doris’s life and she could see that more and more. Doris was becoming deeply interested in him.

“Well, just wait until you see him, that’s all!” said Doris petulantly. “And you may as well know that the Phelps is distinguished. He belongs to the old Phelps family of New England, an old, old family and quite notable. I believe they were all literary, and the Thurlows were distinguished, too. I forget for what. But they are awfully smart and quite popular.”

So for the next two days Doris began giving anecdotes and incidents concerning the Thurlows, the Phelpses, and the Waynes whenever Constance was in the room.

“What’s the idea?” asked Constance at last. “Are you afraid I’m going to back out, or are you aiming to make a permanent connection, a sort of quartet to bring about some of your own dates? Because I warn you that however nice this Thurlow person proves to be, I’m done when this dance is over. He may be an angel in disguise, but anybody who makes it easy for you and that Coulter boy to get together again would be my enemy. Because truly, Doris, Casper Coulter isn’t good enough for you, and that’s the truth.