her." Ted knows that he is smiling, and how, though he is
not looking at his face. "After all--old friends, all that. My dear old
College chum," but the mockery breaks down. "My fault, I guess," he says
in a voice like metal.

"It was, Ted. Acted like a fool. And then, this waiting business--not
much use going over that, now. But it's broken. Got my--property--such
as it was all back in a neat little parcel two weeks ago. That's why I
quit friend Vanamee--you ought to have known from that."

"Did, I suppose, only I hoped it wasn't. I'm damn sorry, Ollie.

"Thanks, Ted."

They shake hands, but not theatrically.

"Oh well--oh hell--oh dammit, you know how blasted sorry I am. That's
all I can say, I guess--"

"Well, so am I. And it was my fault, chiefly. And that's all I can say."

"Look here, though." Ted's voice is doing its best to be logical in
spite of the fact that two things, the fact that he is unutterably
sorry for Oliver and the fact that he mustn't show it in silly ways, are
fighting in him like wrestlers. "Are you sure it's as bad as all that?
I mean girls---" Ted flounders hopelessly between his eagerness to
help and his knowledge that it will take ungodly tact. "I mean,
Nancy's different all right--but they change their minds--and they come
around--and--"

Oliver spreads out his hands. It is somehow queerly comforting not
to let himself be comforted in any degree. "What's the use? Tried
to explain--got her mother--Nancy was out but she certainly left a
message--easier if we never saw each other again--well--Then she
sent back everything--she knew I'd tried to phone her--tried to
explain--never a word since then except my name and address on the
package--oh it's over, Ted. Feenee. But it's pretty well smashed me. For
the present, at least."

"But if you started it," Ted says stubbornly.

"Oh I did, of course--gentlemanly supposition anyhow--that's why--don't
you see?"

"Can't say I do exactly."

"Well?"

"Well?"

"We're both of us too proud, Ted. And too poor. And starting
again--can't you--visualize--it wouldn't be the way it was--only both
of us thinking about _that_ all the time--and _still_ we couldn't get
married. I've got less right than ever, now--oh, but how _could_ we
after what we've said--" and this time his voice has lost all the
attitudes of youth, it is singularly older and seems to come from the
center of a place full of pain.

"I wish I could help, though, Ollie. You know,"