“Well, I don’t know how you managed it exactly. But I could see when
those fellows came upstairs just now that you stood better with them
than you ever had done before. It must have been because you showed the
right spirit—and I know by experience, Westby, that it’s awfully hard to
show the right spirit when you’re down.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“I guess I’ve made it hard for you,” said Westby at last, in a low
voice. “You’re different from what I thought you were.”

Irving’s low laugh of exultation sprang from the heart. “Maybe I am—and
maybe you were right about me, too. A fellow changes. A month ago, I was
wondering what use there could ever be in my studying law—trying to
practise, mixing with men—when I couldn’t hold my own with a handful of
boys. For some reason, I don’t feel that way any longer.—Well, that’s
about all I wanted to say to you, Westby.” He stood up. “Good-night.”

Westby rose and shook hands. “Good-night, sir.”

He passed out and quietly closed the door. Irving stood at the window,
gazing beyond the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the pond,
touched now by the moonlight. There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Irving called.

It was Westby again.

“Oh, Mr. Upton,” he said, “I meant to tell you—I heard at Mr. Barclay’s