'Ye—es,' said the other with a smile, still looking out of the window at the patch of sunset sky over the gray battlements of the college—'ye—es; I've got something to work for. I didn't do half well in the first part; I wasn't sure—quite sure—but it's all right now, and I shall go in and do my best. You have never seen me do my best, Wattles; you will see me do it now—for—for Lucy's sake.'
His face was very noble and tender. It was an ideal man's face—strong, and self-reliant, and masterful, and inexpressibly tender. It moved Eric watching him from that couch, and knowing so much about him.
'It is settled, then?' he said presently, again swallowing something unsatisfactory that seemed to stick.
'Yes; it is settled. She has given me an antidote, a charm, against that accursed thing. She has told me to think of her.'
He was thinking of her now as he lay back in his chair watching the sunlight steal along the roof, and up, up, up the spire of the college chapel. He was thinking of Lucy's sweet eyes, and her blushing cheeks, and the golden ripples of her hair, and he was telling himself that the thought of her would be a tower of strength to him in the future, that he would never, never fall again. When the old temptation came, let it take what form it would, he should be able to meet it. He would only have to think of Lucy.
Eric watched him as he sat on the couch opposite. He guessed what was passing in his mind. His own mind travelled over the ground with him, and presently he paused and sighed. He had come to a cul-de-sac.
'Well,' Edgell said, looking round like one aroused from a day-dream, 'what are you croaking at, Wattles?'
Eric made a feeble attempt to smile; it was a very poor attempt, and it only made his poor tired face look more ghastly.
'I only hope, dear fellow, it will answer,' he said huskily.