the younger,
stronger bodies.

Sinclair had evidently reached much the same conclusion, for he was
saying something about a whim, no lasting reason----

"I've always cared for Sylvia, but it's hard to forgive her this."

"After all," George said, "Blodgett wasn't her kind. She'd have been
unhappy."

In the opaque light Sinclair stared at him.

"Not her kind! No. I suppose he's his own kind."

Temporarily George had driven forth his sympathy. Blodgett, after all,
hadn't been above some sharp tricks to win such liking and admiration.
Sinclair, of all people, suffering for him!

"I mean," George said, "he'd bought his way, hadn't he, after a fashion,
to her side?"

Sinclair continued to stare.

"I don't quite follow. If you mean Josiah's wanted to play with pleasant
people--yes, but the only buying he's ever done is with his amazing
generosity. He's pulled me for one out of a couple of tight holes after
I'd flown straight in the face of his advice. Nothing but a superb good
nature could be so forgiving, don't you think?"

George walked on, keeping step with Sinclair, saying nothing more;
fighting the old instinct to reach forward, to grasp Blodgett's hand, to
beg his pardon; realizing regretfully, in a sense, that the last support
of his jealous contempt had been swept away. He was angry at the blow to
his self-conceit. It frightened him to have that attacked. He couldn't
put up with it. He would rid himself again of this persistent sympathy
for a defeated rival. Just the same, before accepting any more favours
from Blodgett, he desired to clasp the pudgy hand.

Betty didn't know any more than Sinclair, nor did she care to talk about
the break.

"I can't bear to think of all the happiness torn from that cheerful
man."

George studied her face in the light from the windows as they paced up
and down the verandah. There was happiness there in spite of the
perplexing doubt with which she glanced from time to time at him. There
was no question. Betty's kindness had been taken away from him. He tried
to be glad for her, but he was sorry for himself, trying to fancy what
his life would have been if he had permitted his aim to be turned aside,
if he had yielded to the temptation of an unfailing kindness. It had
never been in his nature. Why go back over all that?

"One tie's broken," he said, "and another's made. We're no longer the
good friends we were, because you haven't told me."

Her white cheeks flooded w