Roger turned to his books, but not to read.  The old depression was upon him.  In the glow of his arrival, he had been warmed by the hope that things could be different; here in this hospitable house he had, perchance, found a home.  So he had gone down to find that he was an outsider—­an alien—­old where they were young, separated from Barry and Porter and Mary by years of dark experience.

To him, at this moment, Mary Ballard stood for a symbol of the things which he had lost.  Her youth and light-heartedness, her high courage, and now, perhaps, her romance.  He knew the look that was in Porter Bigelow’s eyes when they had rested upon her.  The look of a man who claims—­his own.  And behind Bigelow’s pleasant and perfunctory greeting Roger had felt a subtle antagonism.  He smiled bitterly.  No man need fear him.  He was out of the running.  He was done with love, with romance, with women, forever.  A woman had spoiled his life.

Yet, if before the other, he had met Mary Ballard?  The possibilities swept over him.  His life to-day would have been different.  He would be facing the world, not turning his back to it.

Brooding over the dying fire, his eyes were stern.  If it had been his fault, he would have taken his punishment without flinching.  But to be overthrown by an act of chivalry—­to be denied the expression of that which surged within him.  Daily he bent over a desk, doing the work that any man might do, he who had been carried on the shoulders of his fellow students, he whose voice had rung with a clarion call!

In the lower hall, a door was again opened, and now there were footsteps ascending.  Then he heard a little laugh.  “I’ve found her—­Aunt Isabelle, she insists upon going up.”

He clicked off his light and very carefully opened his door.  Mary was in the lower hall, the heavy gray cat hugged up in her arms.  She wore a lace boudoir cap, and a pale blue dressing-gown trailed after her.  Seen thus, she was exquisitely feminine.  Faintly through his consciousness flitted Porter Bigelow’s name for her—­Contrary Mary.  Why Contrary?  Was there another side which he had not seen?  He had heard her flaming words to Barry, “If I were a man—­I’d make the world move——­” and he had been for the moment repelled.  He had no sympathy with modern feminine rebellions.  Women were women.  Men were men.  The things which they had in common were love, and that which followed, the home, the family.  Beyond these things their lives were divided, necessarily, properly.

He groped his way back through the darkness to the tower window, opened it and leaned out.  The rain beat upon his face, the wind blew his hair back, and fluttered the ends of his loose tie.  Below him lay the storm-swept city, its lights faint and flickering.  He remembered a test which he had chosen on a night like this.

“O Lord, Thou art my God.  I will exalt Thee, I will praise Thy name, for Thou hast done wonderful things; Thou hast been a strength to the poor, a strength to the needy in distress . . . a refuge from the storm——­”