cture of his face, that to the man looking down on
him he seemed like a youth of some idyl, who could never have known the
invasion of one sordid thought.

A feeling of infinite compassion came over Selwyn. He rebelled against
the cruelty of vice that could fasten its claws on anything so fine,
when there was so much human decay to feed upon.

The eyelids parted a little, and Selwyn stepped back towards the door.

'Hullo, Selwyn, old boy!' murmured Durwent dreamily. 'Is it time to
get up?'

'No,' whispered Selwyn. 'I didn't mean to wake you.'

Durwent smiled deprecatingly and reached sleepily for the other's hand.
'It's awfully decent of you to take me in like this,' he said.

There was a simplicity in his gesture, a child-like sincerity in his
voice, that made Selwyn accept the hand-clasp, unable to utter the
words which came to his lips.

'Selwyn,' said Dick, keeping his face turned towards the fire, 'are you
likely to see Elise soon?'

'I hardly think so,' said the American, kneeling down and stirring the
coals with the poker.

'If you do, please don't tell her I've come back. She thinks I'm in
the Orient somewhere, and if she knew I was joining up she would worry.
I suppose I shall always be "Boy-blue" to her, and never anything
older.'

Selwyn replaced the poker and sat down on a cushion that was on the
floor.

'It may be a rotten thing to say,' resumed the younger man, speaking
slowly, 'but she was more of a mother to me than my mother was. As far
back as I can remember she was the one person who believed in me. The
rest never did. When I was a kid at prep. school and brought home bad
reports, every one seemed to think me an outsider--that I wasn't
conforming--and I began to believe it. Only Elise never changed. She
was the one of the whole family who didn't want me to be somebody or
something else. You can hardly believe what that meant to me in those
days. It was a little world I lived in, but to my youngster's eyes it
looked as if everything and every person were on one side, doubting me,
and Elise was on the other, believing in me. . . . I'm not whining,
Selwyn, or saying that any one's to blame for my life except myself,
but I do believe that if Elise and I had been kept together I might not
have turned out such a rotter. Sometimes, too, I wonder if it wouldn't
have been better for her. She never made many friends--and looking
back, I think the poor little girl has had a lonely tim