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 first day at school—and ever since And now, when we were I won't let her! She has no more claim on you than anyone else. Friendship! She'd throw you over in a minute, wouldn't she? Has she ever said—has she ever promised"

"It isn't her. It's—myself." He glanced at her timidly, and saw only her mouth, in the white light of the electric globe before them, the rest of her face being in the shadow of the umbrella; but her lips were tragically drawn and twisted; and the sight of them silenced him. He understood that he was giving her pain—as he seemed to give everybody pain—his mother, his father, Margaret sobbing on the porch, his cousin Conroy, who hated him. He felt helplessly guilty, without knowing what it was in him that grieved and disappointed everyone who had any affection for him.

"Well, then," she said hoarsely, "I won't let you. You mustn't do it. It's some false idea of honour. I—your other friends have—have rights, too. You owe us something." She had regained some sort of control of herself with an effort that left her voice uncertain, unstrung. "You have been trying to wreck your own life on account of her. You failed in your examinations for the University—with her. You ran away from college—on account of her. And now you want to It's a shame!" She turned with him into the cross street on which she lived, and, taking his arm again, she said: "Don't you even think enough of me to take my advice? Aren't we even—even friends enough for that?"

"You're everything that's—you're the best friend I ever had."