That afternoon, when Lester called and asked for Mr. Dean, he was shown into the library.
Presently Mr. Dean appeared at the doorway, unpiloted. “Hello, Lester,” he said, advancing slowly. “I know where everything is in this room except you.”
“Right here,” said Lester, taking Mr. Dean’s hand.
“It’s very good of you to think of coming to see me. Have a chair.” Mr. Dean seated himself on the sofa. “I understand that you have achieved high honor. That’s fine—fine.”
“I don’t think it’s so fine,” said Lester. “It’s about that I wanted to talk with you—if you’ll be good enough to let me.”
“Of course. What’s the trouble?”
“I feel especially ashamed to come to you about it, and yet in another way it seems as if for that reason I should—you have more knowledge of what I’m like, and I think you’ll understand better,” Lester said awkwardly; he found it hard to make a beginning. The dark glasses gave to Mr. Dean’s face an inscrutable expression that was not helpful. “That mean and dishonest thing I did to you at St. Timothy’s—cribbing my Latin every day in class when you weren’t able to see.”
Mr. Dean made a gesture, impatient, deprecating. “That’s all forgotten, Lester,” he said gravely.
“But something’s happened that makes it necessary to recall it.” Lester leaned forward and twined his fingers together and looked at the floor; he was as uncomfortable as if the eyes that seemed to be gazing at him could really see. “I’ve done the same kind of thing again—only worse, much worse.”