ime
even his efforts to fight it became almost mechanical and unconscious in
their stern round of forced indifference.

Then came that day at the Annex--and the discovery: the discovery which
he had made when Billy called his attention to Calderwell and Alice
Greggory across the room in the corner; the discovery which had come
with so blinding a force, and which even now he was tempted to question
as to its reality; the discovery that not Billy Neilson, nor Mrs.
Bertram Henshaw, nor even the tender ghost of a lost love held the
center of his heart--but Alice Greggory.

The first intimation of all this had come with his curious feeling of
unreasoning hatred and blind indignation toward Calderwell as,
through Billy's eyes, he had seen the two together. Then had come
the overwhelming longing to pick up Alice Greggory and run off with
her--somewhere, anywhere, so that Calderwell could not follow.

At once, however, he had pulled himself up short with the mental cry of
"Absurd!" What was it to him if Calderwell did care for Alice Greggory?
Surely he himself was not in love with the girl. He was in love with
Billy; that is--

It was all confusion then, in his mind, and he was glad indeed when he
could leave the house. He wanted to be alone. He wanted to think. He
must, in some way, thrash out this astounding thing that had come to
him.

Arkwright did not visit the Annex again for some days. Until he was more
nearly sure of himself and of his feelings, he did not wish to see Alice
Greggory. It was then that he began to think of Billy, deliberately,
purposefully, for it must be, of course, that he had made a mistake,
he told himself. It must be that he did, really, still care for
Billy--though of course he ought not to.

Arkwright made another discovery then. He learned that, however
deliberately he started in to think of Billy, he ended every time in
thinking of Alice. He thought of how good she had been to him, and of
how faithful she had been in helping him to fight his love for Billy.
Just here he decided, for a moment, that probably, after all, his
feeling of anger against Calderwell was merely the fear of losing this
helpful comradeship that he so needed. Even with himself, however,
Arkwright could not keep up this farce long, and very soon he admitted
miserably that it was not the comradeship of Alice Greggory that he
wanted or needed, but the love.

He knew it now. No longer was there any use in beating about t