When I went back to college he held my promise that if he could gain the consent of Father and Mother, he might put the engagement ring on my finger.

Back at college, alone in my own room, I drew a long breath, and began to think.  It was the first chance I had had, for even Helen now had become Jerry—­by reflection.

The more I thought, the more frightened, dismayed, and despairing I became.  In the clear light of calm, sane reasoning, it was all so absurd, so impossible!  What could I have been thinking of?

Of Jerry, of course.

With hot cheeks I answered my own question.  And even the thought of him then cast the spell of his presence about me, and again I was back in the whirl of dining and dancing and motoring, with his dear face at my side.  Of Jerry; yes, of Jerry I was thinking.  But I must forget Jerry.

I pictured Jerry in Andersonville, in my own home.  I tried to picture him talking to Father, to Mother.

Absurd!  What had Jerry to do with learned treatises on stars, or with the humdrum, everyday life of a stupid small town?  For that matter, what had Father and Mother to do with dancing and motoring and painting society queens’ portraits?  Nothing.

Plainly, even if Jerry, for the sake of the daughter, liked Father and Mother, Father and Mother certainly would not like Jerry.  That was certain.

Of course I cried myself to sleep that night.  That was to be expected.  Jerry was the world; and the world was lost.  There was nothing left except, perhaps, a few remnants and pieces, scarcely worth the counting—­excepting, of course, Father and Mother.  But one could not always have one’s father and mother.  There would come a time when—­

Jerry’s letter came the next day—­by special delivery.  He had gone straight home from the station and begun to write to me. (How like Jerry that was—­particularly the special-delivery stamp!) The most of his letter, aside from the usual lover’s rhapsodies, had to do with plans for the summer—­what we would do together at the Westons’ summer cottage in Newport.  He said he should run up to Andersonville early—­very early; just as soon as I was back from college, in fact, so that he might meet Father and Mother, and put that ring on my finger.

And while I read the letter, I just knew he would do it.  Why, I could even see the sparkle of the ring on my finger.  But in five minutes after the letter was folded and put away, I knew, with equal certitude—­that he wouldn’t.

It was like that all that spring term.  While under the spell of the letters, as I read them, I saw myself the adored wife of Jerry Weston, and happy ever after.  All the rest of the time I knew myself to be plain Mary Marie Anderson, forever lonely and desolate.

I had been at home exactly eight hours when a telegram from Jerry asked permission to come at once.

As gently as I could I broke the news to Father and Mother.  He was Helen’s brother.  They must have heard me mention him, I knew him well, very well, indeed.  In fact, the purpose of this visit was to ask them for the hand of their daughter.