I've seen. And it's all true--all true--what we believed--as little
boys."

He looked up at Graylock, then closed his eyes with the shadow of a
smile in them.

"Good-bye--Jack," he whispered.

Graylock's mouth quivered, his lips moved in speech; and perhaps
Drene heard and understood, for he opened his eyes and looked once
more at his boyhood friend.

"Somewhere--somebody will straighten out--all this," he murmured,
closing his eyes again: "We can't; we can only try--to straighten
out--ourselves."

Graylock looked down at him in silence, then, tall and heavily
erect, he turned away.

Cecile met him from the studio.

"Good night," she said, offering her hand. . . . "And a happy
Christmas. . . . I hope you will not be lonely."

He took her hand, gravely, thanked her, and went his way forever.

For a few minutes she lingered in the doorway connecting Drene's
bedroom with the studio. She held a sprig of holly.

After a little while he opened his eyes and looked at her, and,