white-coated surgeons,
with Ramsdell's face beside him, Ramsdell's curiously gentle arm around
his shoulders. He saw himself, again with Ramsdell, this time at home,
and with the stanch old doctor at his other side. And then, all at
once, the other figures faded, and he saw himself alone with Olive; saw
Olive, daintily alive and eager, saw her merry mask of teasing fun
which never really covered the pitiful comprehension underneath; saw
himself, still, helpless, a wretched compromise between death and life,
answering her nonsense with laughing lips, but with eyes which, however
brave, yet were full of an insistent appeal for something that she
alone could give him. And Olive was not slow of understanding. Oh,
God--

He flung his arm, the arm scarred with the fresh pricks of the useless
hypodermic needle, across his burning eyes, his throbbing temples,
before he finished out his phrase. Oh, God have mercy! What had he,
albeit dumbly, allowed himself to ask of Olive? What right had he,
henceforward, to call himself a man, or honourable, or brave, or
anything else but an insufferably selfish cad, that he had ever once
allowed one such instant of supine appeal to scar the surface of their
perfect friendship? A girl like Olive was not for such a man as he
was--now. Once, it might have been; but, at that time, it had not
occurred to him to think about it. In the fulness of his powers, he had
had scant time for women. Now, in his utter weakness--And Olive--

The thread of light became a sudden flood. His hot, wet eyes shrank
from the dazzle.

"Did you speak, sir?" Ramsdell inquired, from the nearer threshold.

Some sudden instinct of weakness made Opdyke long for the touch of any
firm and friendly hand.

"No, you old owl," he answered. "Still, now you are here, do you mind
trying to straighten me out a little? Thanks. That's very good. Now go
to bed. I think I am beginning to feel sleepy."

Ramsdell obediently vanished; and Opdyke, shutting his teeth upon his
mental agonies, lay silent and as if turned to stone. With a supreme
effort at self-control, he drove the pictures from the shadowy wall; he
banished Olive from his mind. Instead, he forced himself to think of
Whittenden, of the charge that Whittenden had laid on him concerning
Brenton. It had seemed a bit unfair at the time; now, looking backward,
Opdyke could see that, as usual, Whittenden had been wise.
Responsibilities, such as that one, would be very steadying