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was irony in that term now. The pledges they took to stand by one another, and then when something like this happened they were as quick as any outsider to lose faith! . . . He assured himself he didn't care what they thought, but in reality he cared tremendously; he cared so much that at times he was sorely tempted to tell them the truth about Brad and show them the letter. An impish voice in his ear would whisper, "Brad's dead. It couldn't hurt him. It can hurt you. It's hurting you now. You've got your life to live. Go ahead and tell them, you fool" . . .

But week succeeded dragging week, and he did not.

The Zeta Kappa staircase was so constructed that anyone descending came into sight piece by piece, like a sectional postcard opened lengthwise. At noontime of a mild spring-like day in late February Jock Hamill's feet appeared at the top of these stairs and proceeded to bring the rest of him slowly down. Handsome legs in golf stockings of a blue-and-gray diamond pattern. Knickers, voluminous and drooping low. Coat that matched the knickers, bisected by an oblong of white linen shirt. Surmounting this oblong, a soft collar with a neat bow tie. And finally, the sculptured brunette head that made all young women and some old ones catch their breaths a little.

At the foot of the stairs the head ducked forward in an attitude of listening, and Jock stood still. A medley of excited voices drifted to him from the living-room.

". . . If that's not hot I'm crazy!" . . . "Yes, and look at the bus, will you? She must be Mrs. Rolls