battle more than fifteen years ago,
and he burst out in an exclamation of pleased surprise.

"You're Arnold Kemper and I'm Roger Adams," he said, laying his hand
upon the other's arm.

Kemper wheeled about immediately, while the smile of placid amusement in
his face broadened into a laugh of delighted recognition.

"Well, by Jove, it's great!" he responded, and the heartiness of his
handshake sent a tingling sensation through Adams' arm. "I don't know
when I've been so pleased for years. Been to luncheon?"

"I've just had it," laughed Adams, remembering that fifteen years ago,
when he last saw him, Kemper had extended a similar invitation with the
same grasp of hearty good fellowship. Was it possible that the man had
really kept his college memories alive? he wondered in a daze of
admiration, or had he himself merely awakened by his reappearance a
train of associations which had lain undisturbed since their last
parting. Let it be as it might, Adams felt that the encounter was of the
pleasantest.

"I'm driven like a slave back to office drudgery," he added, "and I'm
half inclined to envy you your freedom and your automobiles."

Kemper's eyes shot back an intimate curiosity. "So you're editor of _The
International Review_, I hear," he said. "Do you know I've had it in my
mind for years to look you up, but there's such a confounded temptation
to let things drift, you know."

"I know," rejoined Adams, smiling. "I've drifted with them."

"Well, I'm jolly glad that you've drifted my way at last. So you've been
to luncheon, have you?" Kemper enquired again, as he unfastened a button
of his overcoat and drew out his watch. "I wish you hadn't--I've
promised to meet a man at the club and it's past the hour. I say, look
here," he added hastily as he was about to hurry off, "I've some rather
decent rooms of my own now where I sometimes manage to get a quiet
morsel. Will you come to dine to-morrow at half-past seven, sharp?"

It took Adams hardly an instant to consider and accept the invitation.
Though he rarely dined out he felt a positive pleasure at the thought,
and when, a minute later, he walked on again, repeating the number of
the address which the other had pressed upon him, he found that Kemper's
greeting had left a trail of cheerfulness which lingered for at least a
half hour after the man himself had gone on his genial way. If, as Gerty
Bridewell had once declared in a fit of exasperation, "Arnold Kemper
consis