a few moments, and when I came back I was careful to keep out of my
eyes that which as yet it was not wise that they should tell. I have
long since learned a man must not be hurried. Certainly not a man of
Selwyn's type.

Sitting down in a corner of the sofa, I nodded to the men to sit down
also, but that which they had been discussing while I was out of the
room still held, and, returning to it, they stood awhile longer, one
on either side of the mantelpiece, and, hands in my lap, I watched
them with hope in my heart of which they did not dream.

They are strangely contrasting--Selwyn and David Guard. That is, so
far as outward and physical appearance is concerned. But of certain
inward sympathies, certain personal standards of life, certain
intellectual acceptances and rejections, they have far more in common
than they imagine, and to find this basis upon which friendship might
take root is a desire that sprang into life upon seeing them
together. Should they ever be friends, they would be forever
friends. Of that I am very sure.

By Selwyn's side David Guard seemed smaller, frailer, less robust
than ever, yet about him was no hint of feebleness, and his radiation
of quiet force was not lessened by Selwyn's strength. His clothes
were shabbier than ever, his cravat even less secure than usual, and
the long lock of hair that fell at times across his forehead was
grayer than formerly, I thought, but no externals could dim the
consciousness that he was a man to be reckoned with.

Opposite him Selwyn seemed the embodiment of all he lacked. The
well-being of his body, the quiet excellence of his clothes, the