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picture grew dim, for what work he would do was still problematical. But it would be something. Something in an airy big office high up in a tall building, at a mahogany desk with a telephone on it and a stenographer efficient but not too hard on the eyes sitting near. And it would be soon, without delay.

It wasn't, however. When the time came for him to bestir himself, he was bound in lassitude. "Tomorrow," said his soul. "Tomorrow you can see about a job. Today, just take it easy." And he did . . . while the todays and tomorrows strung themselves together into weeks, two weeks, three weeks, of soft idyllic idleness.

Every now and then he awoke briefly and ranted at himself. "You lazy good-for-nothing! You big hunk of cheese! Get going, will you? You left college to work, remember, not to loaf in the sun." Yet he continued to loaf in the sun. He literally had to, for awhile. He was convalescing, from mental stress and strain so acute that its snap had left him limp as a string and in need of this interlude.

The matter of Eunice was settled; his mother had attended to that thoroughly. And he had gone from the campus with apologies and retractions singing in his ears and the glow of his comrades' regard in his heart. It had hurt rather terribly, that departure; when he drove away the road had blurred before his eyes as though there were rain on the windshield. But now. . . . Ah-h, to be at home! To sleep until noon in a bed like a silky white cloud! To breakfast on unquestionable eggs, and peerless coffee, and cream that fell plopp from the pitcher! To see the hours lined up, waiting, like minions for his bidding! To be his own master, free, and to have on his mind no