"Me? I?"
"Yes, you. I don't mean—I'm in earnest now; I hate to see a good man chucking a good profession, and, unless he steadies down, he is bound to chuck it—I don't mean any nonsense about your owing it to him. I mean that you can hold him steady longer than anybody else."
"Not you?" Opdyke's accent was incredulous.
"My grip on him is gone. In the past, I may have helped him. All I could say, this afternoon, only rubbed him the wrong way, and increased the notion that he's cherishing, the notion that he's an uncomprehended genius. In heaven's name, Reed," and Whittenden's fist came crashing down on the arm of his chair; "is anything in this whole world more hard to fight than that same pose of being misunderstood? Nine times out of ten, it is mere pose. The tenth time, it is mere paranoia, and hence more manageable. No. My hold on Brenton is all gone. As I say, he has outgrown me; I still believe in my immortal soul, and a few such other trifles that no laboratory can prove. To be sure, you believe them, too; but, if you're going to manage Brenton, keep the beliefs tucked out of sight."
"Where's my hold on him, then?" Reed queried.
Whittenden, bending forward, laid his hand across the rug.
"This," he said quietly; and, strange to say, the words brought no sting to Reed Opdyke's mind.
Nevertheless, he objected to the fact.
"It seems so much like gallery play, Whittenden," he urged. "It's a bit nasty to be making capital out of a thing like that."
Whittenden shook his head, as, settling back again, he flung his hand up into the old resting place.