“You mean treat him just as if nothing had happened? I can’t. Something inside me won’t let me.”
“How are you going to treat him, then?”
“I don’t know, except that I can’t be on such easy terms with him any more. This thing has spoiled him for me.”
“I don’t believe one act changes a fellow all over. You’ve known Lester pretty intimately and have always liked him and even admired him. This thing that he’s done isn’t characteristic of him, I feel sure.”
“Don’t you suppose there are lots of men in prison for doing things that aren’t really characteristic of them? It’s the act itself—the kind of act that it was—that a fellow can’t overlook.”
“I’m sorry you feel as you do.”
“So am I. But I can’t help it.”
When Richard returned to his room, Lester was writing and did not look up. Richard settled himself in a chair and began to read. The silence to which the two thus committed themselves became characteristic now of their relations. They did not actually cease to be on speaking terms with each other, but they addressed each other as seldom as possible. Lester no longer availed himself of what had been a standing invitation to dine on Sunday at Richard’s house in Boston. Mr. and Mrs. Bradley and Marion asked Richard why Lester had dropped them, and Richard replied that he guessed that wasn’t it, but that Lester had given up going out anywhere to dine with people. The family looked mystified, but for the time being did not pursue the inquiry.
On the day of the senior-class elections Lester was greeted with friendly smiles from numerous classmates as he walked from his room to the voting place.
“It’s a sure thing for you,” said one who came out of the building as Lester entered.