rett. I'm down-stairs. I heard you were in New York and I had a
hunch you'd be here."

The sleepy voice became gradually enthusiastic. Well, how was Gordy,
old boy! Well, he certainly was surprised and tickled! Would Gordy
come right up, for Pete's sake!

A few minutes later Philip Dean, dressed in blue silk pajamas, opened
his door and the two young men greeted each other with a
half-embarrassed exuberance. They were both about twenty-four, Yale
graduates of the year before the war; but there the resemblance
stopped abruptly. Dean was blond, ruddy, and rugged under his thin
pajamas. Everything about him radiated fitness and bodily comfort. He
smiled frequently, showing large and prominent teeth.

"I was going to look you up," he cried enthusiastically. "I'm taking a
couple of weeks off. If you'll sit down a sec I'll be right with you.
Going to take a shower."

As he vanished into the bathroom his visitor's dark eyes roved
nervously around the room, resting for a moment on a great English
travelling bag in the corner and on a family of thick silk shirts
littered on the chairs amid impressive neckties and soft woollen
socks.

Gordon rose and, picking up one of the shirts, gave it a minute
examination. It was of very heavy silk, yellow, with a pale blue
stripe--and there were nearly a dozen of them. He stared
involuntarily at his own shirt-cuffs--they were ragged and linty at
the edges and soiled to a faint gray. Dropping the silk shirt, he held
his coat-sleeves down and worked the frayed shirt-cuffs up till they
were out of sight. Then he went to the mirror and looked at himself
with listless, unhappy interest. His tie, of former glory, was faded
and thumb-creased--it served no longer to hide the jagged buttonholes
of his collar. He thought, quite without amusement, that only three
years before he had received a scattering vote in the senior elections
at college for being the best-dressed man in his class.

Dean emerged from the bathroom polishing his body.

"Saw an old friend of yours last night," he remarked.
"Passed her in the lobby and couldn't think of her name to save my
neck. That girl you brought up to New Haven senior year."

Gordon started.

"Edith Bradin? That whom you mean?"

"'At's the one. Damn good looking. She's still sort of a pretty
doll--you know what I mean: as if you touched her she'd smear."

He surveyed his shining self complacently in the mirror, smiled
faintly, exposing a section o