straight looking, while those of the man in the middle of the
room were cloudy and furtive. He could not face the other's gaze, and
continually and vainly struggled with himself to do so. The high cheek
bones with the hollows beneath were the same, yet the texture of the
hollows seemed different. The thin-lipped mouths were from the same
mould, but George's lips were firm and muscular, while Al's were soft
and loose--the lips of an ascetic turned voluptuary. There was also a
sag at the corners. His flesh hinted of grossness, especially so in the
eagle-like aquiline nose that must once have been like the other's, but
that had lost the austerity the other's still retained.

Al fought for steadiness in the middle of the floor. The silence
bothered him. He had a feeling that he was about to begin swaying back
and forth. He moistened his lips with his tongue.

"I'm going to stay," he said desperately.

He dropped his eyes and plucked again at his sleeve.

"And you are only twenty-six years old," George said at last. "You poor,
feeble old man."

"Don't be so sure of that," Al retorted, with a flash of belligerence.

"Do you remember when we swam that mile and a half across the channel?"

"Well, and what of it?" A sullen expression was creeping across Al's
face.

"And do you remember when we boxed in the barn after school?"

"I could take all you gave me."

"All I gave you!" George's voice rose momentarily to a higher pitch.
"You licked me four afternoons out of five. You were twice as strong as
I--three times as strong. And now I'd be afraid to land on you with a
sofa cushion; you'd crumple up like a last year's leaf. You'd die, you
poor, miserable old man."

"You needn't abuse me just because I've changed my mind," the other
protested, the hint of a whine in his voice.

His wife entered, and he looked appealingly to her; but the man at the
window strode suddenly up to him and burst out--

"You don't know your own mind for two successive minutes! You haven't
any mind, you spineless, crawling worm!"

"You can't make me angry." Al smiled with cunning, and glanced
triumphantly at his wife. "You can't make me angry," he repeated, as
though the idea were thoroughly gratifying to him. "I know your game.
It's my stomach, I tell you. I can't help it. Before God, I can't! Isn't
it my stomach, Mary?"

She glanced at George and spoke composedly, though she hid a trembling
hand in a fold of her skirt.

"Isn't it time?