sad and his face pale and grave.

XXI

HE THAT WAS DEAD

"Yes, it is I, the unlucky penny; Old Galahad, in flesh and blood and
bone. I shouldn't get white over it, Arthur. It isn't worth while. I
can see that you haven't changed much, unless it is that your hair is a
little paler at the temples. Gray? I'll wager I've a few myself."
There was a flippancy in his tone that astonished Warrington's own
ears, for certainly this light mockery did not come from within. At
heart he was sober enough.

To steady the thundering beat of his pulse he crossed the room, righted
the chair, stacked the books and laid them on the desk. Arthur did not
move save to turn his head and to follow with fascinated gaze his
brother's movements.

"Now, Arthur, I've only a little while. I can see by your eyes that
you are conjuring up all sorts of terrible things. But nothing is
going to happen. I am going to talk to you; then I'm going away; and
to-morrow it will be easy to convince yourself that you have seen only
a ghost. Sit down. I'll take this chair at the left."

Arthur's hands slid from the desk; in a kind of collapse he sat down.
Suddenly he laid his head upon his arms, and a great sigh sent its
tremor across his shoulders. Warrington felt his heart swell. The
past faded away; his wrongs became vapors. He saw only his brother,
the boy he had loved so devotedly, Arty, his other self, his scholarly
other self. Why blame Arthur? He, Paul, was the fool.

"Don't take it like that, Arty," he said.

The other's hand stretched out blindly toward the voice. "Ah, great
God, Paul!"

"I know! Perhaps I've brooded too much." Warrington crushed the hand
in his two strong ones. "The main fault was mine. I couldn't see the
length of my nose. I threw a temptation in your way which none but a
demi-god could have resisted. That night, when I got your note telling
me what you had done, I did a damnably foolish thing. I went to the
club-bar and drank heavily. I was wild to help you, but I couldn't see
how. At two in the morning I thought I saw the way. Drunken men get
strange ideas into their heads. You were the apple of the mother's
eyes; I was only her son. No use denying it. She worshiped you;
tolerated me. I came back to the house, packed up what I absolutely
needed, and took the first train west. It all depended upon what you'd
do. You let me go, Arty, old boy. I suppose you were pretty well
knocked up,