The last faculty reception before commencement. In five days they would be in the cyclone of final examinations.

The house of the president had been massed with palms suggestive of polite undertaking parlors, and in the library, a ten-foot room with a globe and the portraits of Whittier and Martha Washington, the student orchestra was playing “Carmen” and “Madame Butterfly.” Carol was dizzy with music and the emotions of parting. She saw the palms as a jungle, the pink-shaded electric globes as an opaline haze, and the eye-glassed faculty as Olympians. She was melancholy at sight of the mousey girls with whom she had “always intended to get acquainted,” and the half dozen young men who were ready to fall in love with her.

But it was Stewart Snyder whom she encouraged. He was so much manlier than the others; he was an even warm brown, like his new ready-made suit with its padded shoulders. She sat with him, and with two cups of coffee and a chicken patty, upon a pile of presidential overshoes in the coat-closet under the stairs, and as the thin music seeped in, Stewart whispered:

“I can’t stand it, this breaking up after four years! The happiest years of life.”

She believed it. “Oh, I know! To think that in just a few days we’ll be parting, and we’ll never see some of the bunch again!”

“Carol, you got to listen to me! You always duck when I try to talk seriously to you, but you got to listen to me. I’m going to be a big lawyer, maybe a judge, and I need you, and I’d protect you⁠—”

His arm slid behind her shoulders. The insinuating music drained her independence. She said mournfully, “Would you take care of me?” She touched his hand. It was warm, solid.

“You bet I would! We’d have, Lord, we’d have bully times in Yankton, where I’m going to settle⁠—”

“But I want to do something with life.”

“What’s better than making a comfy home and bringing up some cute kids and knowing nice homey people?”

It was the immemorial male reply to the restless woman. Thus to the young Sappho spake the melon-venders; thus the captains to Zenobia; and in the damp cave over gnawed bones the hairy suitor thus protested to the woman advocate of matriarchy. In the dialect of Blodgett College but with the voice of Sappho was Carol’s answer:

“Of course. I know. I suppose that’s so. Honestly, I do love children. But there’s lots of women that can do housework, but I⁠—well, if you have got a college education, you ought to use it for the world.”

“I know, but you can use it just as well in the home. And gee, Carol, just think of a bunch of us going out on an auto picnic, some nice spring evening.”

“Yes.”

“And sleigh-riding in winter, and going fishing⁠—”

Blarrrrrrr! The orchestra had crashed into the “Soldiers’ Chorus”; and she was protesting, “No! No! You’re a dear, but I want to do things. I don’t understand myself but I want⁠—everything in the world! Maybe I can’t sing or write, but I know I can be an influence in library work. Just suppose I encouraged some boy and he became a great artist! I will! I will do it! Stewart dear, I can’t settle down to nothing but dish-washing!”

Two minutes later⁠—two hectic minutes⁠—they were disturbed by an embarrassed couple also seeking the idyllic seclusion of the overshoe-closet.

After graduation she never saw Stewart Snyder again. She wrote to him once a week⁠—for one month.