* * *

Just before commencement his relations with Cynthia came to a climax.
They had been constantly becoming more complicated. She was demanding
nothing of him, but her letters were tinged with despair. He felt at
last that he must see her. Then he would know whether he loved her or
not. A year before she had said that he didn't. How did she know? She
had said that all he felt for her was sex attraction. How did she know
that? Why, she had said that was all that she felt for him. And he had
heard plenty of fellows argue that love was nothing but sexual
attraction anyway, and that all the stuff the poets wrote was pure bunk.
Freud said something like that, he thought, and Freud knew a damn sight
more about it than the poets.

Yet, the doubt remained. Whether love was merely sexual attraction or
not, he wanted something more than that; his every instinct demanded
something more. He had noticed another thing: the fellows that weren't
engaged said that love was only sexual attraction; those who were
engaged vehemently denied it, and Hugh knew that some of the engaged
men had led gay lives in college. He could not reach any decision; at
times he was sure that what he felt for Cynthia was love; at other times
he was sure that it wasn't.

At last in desperation he telegraphed to her that he was coming to New
York and that she should meet him at Grand Central at three o'clock the
next day. He knew that he oughtn't to go. He would be able to stay in
New York only a little more than two hours because his father and mother
would arrive in Haydensville the day following, and he felt that he had
to be there to greet them. He damned himself for his impetuousness all
during the long trip, and a dozen times he wished he were back safe in
the Nu Delta house. What in hell would he say to Cynthia, anyway? What
would he do when he saw her? Kiss her? "I won't have a damned bit of
sense left if I do."

She was waiting for him as he came through the gate. Quite without
thinking, he put down his bag and kissed her. Her touch had its old
power; his blood leaped. With a tremendous effort of will he controlled
himself. That afternoon was all-important; he must keep his head.

"It's sweet of you to come," Cynthia whispered, clinging to him, "so
damned sweet."

"It's damned good to see you," he replied gruffly. "Come on while I
check this bag. I've only got a little over two hours, Cynthia; I've
got to get the five-ten b