y said, impulsively, in George's ear, "does he speak to you
that way? Why does he call you George like that?"

For a moment he looked at her steadily, appealingly.

"It's partly my own fault," he said at last, "but it hurts."

Her voice was softer than before.

"That's wrong. You mustn't let little things hurt, George."

For the first time in his memory he felt a stinging at his eyes, the
desire for tears. He didn't misunderstand. Her use of his first name was
not a precedent. It had been balm applied to a wound that she had only
been able to see was painful. Yet, as he walked away with Goodhue, he
felt as if he had been baptized again.

XV

Wandel, quite undisturbed, joined them.

"You and Dicky," the little man said, "look as if you had come out of a
bad wreck. What's up? It's only a game."

"Of course you're right," George answered, "but you have to play some
games desperately hard if you want to win."

"Now what are you driving at, great man?" Wandel wanted to know.

"Come on, Spike," Goodhue said, irritably. "You're always looking for
double meanings."

George walked on with them, desolately aware of many factors of his life
gone awry. The game; Lambert's noticeable mockery, all the more
unbearable because of its unaffectedness; Dalrymple's adjacence to
Sylvia--these remembrances stung, the last most of all.

"Come on up, you two," Goodhue suggested as they approached the building
in which he lived, "I believe Dolly's giving tea to Sylvia Planter and
her mother."

George wanted to see if the photograph was still there, but he couldn't
risk it. He shook his head.

"Not into the camp of the enemy?" Wandel laughed.

Of course, George told himself as he walked off, Wandel's words couldn't
possibly have held any double meaning.

He fought it out that night, sleeping scarcely at all. In the rush of
his progress here he had failed to realize how little he had really
advanced toward his ultimate goal. Lambert had offhand, perhaps
unintentionally, shown him that afternoon how wide the intervening space
still stretched. Was it because of moral cowardice that he shrank from
challenging a crossing? The answer to such a challenge might easily mean
the destruction of all he had built up, the heavy conditioning of his
future which now promised so abundantly.

He faced her picture with his eyes resolute, his jaw thrust out.

"I'll do it," he told the lifeless print. "I'll make you know me. I'll
teach your