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 in bare head. Accordingly every new hat found its way to a shelf in her wardrobe amongst the accumulated headgear of seasons.

And Grover would mechanically urge her to make a trip to the country and "change her ideas," feeling the while that his own ideas were jelling too hard, that the novelty of being a gentleman at large in a free universe, of being a young New Englander abroad for a purpose and not for a holiday, had worn somewhat thin. Once or twice it struck him as odd not to be preparing for a return to college. With the sense of freedom he had acquired was mingled a tinge of nostalgia for the red brick and the elms of Cambridge, the knobby pavements of Mount Auburn Street, the Japanese ivy at the windows of his dormitory, the smell of roasting chestnuts in front of the bookstore, the snooty, affectionate morning greetings in the street from Eric Peperell and other sleepy classmates, the letters from Rhoda and his mother—especially those.

Often now, after days of wandering through the byways of Paris, he caught himself hurrying back to the rue Truffaut, only to stop short with the desolating realization that in his mind he had been composing a letter to his mother, the only person who had ever completely responded to his whimsical enthusiasms about nothing in particular. What a blessed relief it had been in the old days to pour out one's imaginary woes and imaginary exaltations in chaotic letters home. What pain it caused, now, to be obliged to keep one's