my bad health. He spoke in a mocking way, with a presence of not
quite meaning it, but the feeling could not be wholly disguised.
Stung by his reproaches, I blurted out that he had no right to
talk to me, even in fun, in such a way. Yes, he said, getting
serious, he had the best right--that of our friendship. He would
be no true friend if he kept his peace about such a matter.
Then, in my haste, I retorted that to me the friendship between
us did not seem so perfect and complete as it did to him. One
condition of friendship is that the partners in it should be
known to each other. He had had my whole life and mind open to
him, to read it as in a book. HIS life was a closed and clasped
volume to me.

His face darkened, and after a few moments' silent reflection he
got up and left me with a cold good-bye, and without that
hand-grasp which had been customary between us.

After his departure I had the feeling that a great loss, a great
calamity, had befallen me, but I was still smarting at his too
candid criticism, all the more because in my heart I acknowledged
its truth. And that night, lying awake, I repented of the cruel
retort I had made, and resolved to ask his forgiveness and leave
it to him to determine the question of our future relations. But
he was beforehand with me, and with the morning came a letter
begging my forgiveness and asking me to go that evening to dine
with him.

We were alone, and during dinner and afterwards, when we sat
smoking and sipping black coffee in the veranda, we were
unusually quiet, even to gravity, which caused the two white-clad