The Denison review. [volume] (Denison, Iowa) 1867-current, 1910-10-26

cred shipping, beyond the gray line
of buildings and the masses of foliage
and swan into a tremulous June
evening seven years past.
She saw wide campus of green
sward studded with stately elms fes
tooned with electric lights that
glowed in the falling twilight. Scat
tered about were groups Of benches
each with it's freight of dainty frocks,
and on one of them she saw herself
sitting, a shy girl of sixteen, on her
first visit to a great university. Men
went by her in sober black gown and
fiat motar-boards, young, clean-shav'
en- and boyish, with arms about one
anOthers' shoulders. From one OF the
balconies of the the ivied dormitor-
les that faced the green came the
mellow tinkle of mandolin and the
sound of clear tenor:
"Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally.
The groups about her had fallen
silent-only one voice had said:
"That's Duke Daunt." Then the mel
ody suddenly broke queerly and stop
ped, and the man who had spoken got
up quickly, and said: Ppm going in.
It's time to dress anyway" And
somehow his voice had seemed to
break queerly, too.
Duke Daunt! The scene shifted in
to the next day, when she had met
him for a handful of delirious mo-
ments. For how long afterward had
he remained her childish idol! Time
had overlaid the memory, but it start
ed bright now at the sound of that
whistled tune.
Her uncle's voice recalled her. He
was handing her his binoculars. She
took them, chose spot we'll forward
and glued her eyes to the glass.
A sigh of ecstasy came from her
lips, for it brought the land almost
at arms length-the stone hatoba
crowded with brown Japanese faces,
pricked out here and there by the
white Panama hat or pith-helmet of
the foreigner; at one side a bouquet
of gay muslin dresses and beribboned
parasols thanked by phalanx OF
.1> no ho
crimson sails at the yacht anchorage
the stately, columned front of the
club on the Bund with it's cool ter
race of round tables-the kimono'd
figures squatting under the grOtesque-
ly bent pines along the water front,
where a motor car flashed like bril-
liant mailed beetle-farther away tiny
shop fronts hung with waving figured
blue and beyond them gray billow-
ing of tiled roofs, and long, bright,
Acknowledgement streets sauntering
toward mass Of glowing green from
which cherry blossoms scared like
pink balloons.
Nearer, nearer yet, the ship drew
on, till there came to meet it two
curved arms OF breakwater, minia-
ture lighthouse at each side.
Barbara lowered the glass from her
eyes. The slow swinging of the YES
sci to the anchor had brought daz-
zling bulk between her gaze and the
shore, perilously near She saw it
now in it's proper perspective-a trim
steam yacht, painted white, with a
rakish air of speed and tautness, the
sun glinting from it's polished brass
fittings.
Barbara was feeling a strange sensa-
ton of familiarity. Puzzled, she with
drew her gaze, then looked once more.
Suddenly she dropped the glass with
startled exclamation. What are
you going to do with that man??-
her uncle's queery seemed to echo
satirically about her. For the white
yacht was Austen Wares, and there,
on the cleaning bows, in polished
golden letters, was the name.
pAppApA