you--what we talked over. . . . I'm ashamed and sorry; but I can stay
here and attend to things, of course--"

"I don't want Neergard to see you," repeated Selwyn.

"W-why," stammered the boy, "do I look as rocky as that?"

"Yes. See here, you are not afraid of me, are you?"

"No--"

"You don't think I'm one of those long-faced, blue-nosed butters-in, do
you? You have confidence in me, haven't you? You know I'm an average and
normally sinful man who has made plenty of mistakes and who understands
how others make them--you know that, don't you, old chap?"

"Y-es."

"Then you _will_ listen, won't you, Gerald?"

The boy laid his arms on the desk and hid his face in them. Then he
nodded.

For ten minutes Selwyn talked to him with all the terse and colloquial
confidence of a comradeship founded upon respect for mutual fallibility.
No instruction, no admonition, no blame, no reproach--only an
affectionately logical review of matters as they stood--and as they
threatened to stand.

The boy, fortunately, was still pliable and susceptible, still unalarmed