his throat and the smart to his eyes.

"Blixy," he said, just above a whisper; "Blixy, wish I was a
better sort of chap."

"That's the beginning of being better, isn't it, Condy?" she
answered, turning toward him, her chin on her hand.

"It does seem a pity," he went on, "that when you WANT to do the
right, straight thing, and be clean and fine, that you can't just
BE it, and have it over with. It's the keeping it up that's the
grind."

"But it's the keeping it up, Condy, that makes you WORTH BEING
GOOD when you finally get to be good; don't you think? It's the
keeping it up that makes you strong; and then when you get to be
good you can make your goodness count. What's a good man if he's
weak?--if his goodness is better than he is himself? It's the good
man who is strong--as strong as his goodness, and who can make his
goodness count--who is the right kind of man. That's what I
think."

There's something in that, there's something in that." Then, after
a pause: "I played Monday night, after all, Blix, after promising
I wouldn't."

For a time she did not answer, and when she spoke, she spoke
quietly: "Well--I'm glad you told me"; and after a little she
added, "Can't you stop, Condy?"