most of such time as was
not given to his professional duties in deliberately cultivating the
society of Bertram and his friends. To this extent he met with no
difficulty, for he found that M. J. Arkwright, the new star in the
operatic firmament, was obviously a welcome comrade. Beyond this it was
not so easy. Arkwright wondered, indeed, sometimes, if he were making
any progress at all. But still he persevered.

He walked with Bertram, he talked with Bertram, unobtrusively he
contrived to be near Bertram almost always, when they were together with
"the boys." Gradually he won from him the story of what the surgeon had
said to him, and of how black the future looked in consequence. This
established a new bond between them, so potent that Arkwright ventured
to test it one day by telling Bertram the story of the tiger skin--the
first tiger skin in his uncle's library years ago, and of how, since
then, any difficulty he had encountered he had tried to treat as a
tiger skin. In telling the story he was careful to draw no moral for
his listener, and to preach no sermon. He told the tale, too, with all
possible whimsical lightness of touch, and immediately at its conclusion
he changed the subject. But that he had not failed utterly in his design
was evidenced a few days later when Bertram grimly declared that he
guessed _his_ tiger skin was a lively beast, all right.

The first time Arkwright went home with Bertram, his presence was almost
a necessity. Bertram was not quite himself that night. Billy admitted
them. She had plainly been watching and waiting. Arkwright never forgot
the look on her face as her eyes met his. There was a curious mixture
of terror, hurt pride, relief, and shame, overtopped by a fierce loyalty
which almost seemed to say aloud the words: "Don't you dare to blame
him!"

Arkwright's heart ached with sympathy and admiration at the proudly
courageous way in which Billy carried off the next few painful minutes.
Even when he bade her good night a little later, only her eyes said
"thank you." Her lips were dumb.

Arkwright often went home with Bertram after that. Not that it was
always necessary--far from it. Some time, indeed, elapsed before he
had quite the same excuse again for his presence. But he had found that
occasionally he could get Bertram home earlier by adroit suggestions of
one kind or another; and more and more frequently he was succeeding in
getting him home for a game of chess.

Bertram