Connie was no longer the girl whom he remembered under cherry-coloured ribbons.

She came in reality no closer to him than did the tired, restless women, with artificially brightened faces, who appeared to his exhausted eyes to whirl past him perpetually in cabs.

A passionate regret seized him for the thing which Connie was not and could never be again--for the love he had never known and for the fatherhood that had been denied him.
He had turned, still plunged in his thoughts, into a quiet cross street where a crowd of ragged urchins were snowballing one another in a noisy battle; and as he paused for an instant to watch the fight he noticed that a man, coming from the opposite direction, had stopped also and stood now motionless with interest upon the sidewalk.

The peculiar concentration of attention was the first thing which Adams remarked in the stranger--from his absorbed level gaze it was evident that mentally at least he had thrown himself for the moment into the thickest of the battle, and there was a flush of eager enjoyment in the face which was partially obscured by the falling snow flakes.

Then, quick as a flash of light, something pleasantly familiar in the watching figure, gripped Adams with the memory of a college battle more than fifteen years ago, and he burst out in an exclamation of pleased surprise.
"You're Arnold Kemper and I'm Roger Adams," he said, laying his hand upon the other's arm.
Kemper wheeled about immediately, while the smile of placid amusement in his face broadened into a laugh of delighted recognition.
"Well, by Jove, it's great!" he responded, and the heartiness of his handshake sent a tingling sensation through Adams' arm.