"I had gone in for a certain amount of accountancy too."
Masters made the response with a little catch in his voice, which the assumed laugh could not disguise. He had stopped and was standing with his hand on Dick's shoulder.
"Do you remember that last time I held you like this, dear boy? I was so full of joy then, so blinded by it, to what I was doing, that you accused me of squeezing you to hurting point." A sigh punctuated his speech. "I don't feel like hurting you now."
"Squeeze the life out of me, if it will be any relief to your feelings." Dick spoke gruffly. "It's your life. I shouldn't be living at all if it were not for you."
He was a good boy was Dick, with a heart in him; a heart in the right place. It grieved him to see even the suspicion of a tear in the eye of the friend he loved so well.
His own brown eyes looked into the author's with silent, dog-like fidelity and sympathy. Masters was not insensible to it. It was an eloquent silence; expressed far more to him than words could have done.
"I made a mistake, Dick; that's all. I suppose all of us do; the world seems so full of them.... And let this be the last of it, dear old man, will you? Don't recur to it ever again; please. The sore is fresh, and—and—I don't mind owning to you, it hurts. Please don't let us talk about it—ever again—please."
Dick grasped the hand extended to him; held it in a long, tight grip. Put his other hand on his companion's shoulder, and was about to speak. Then felt that speech would be a failure; simply said gruffly:
"I'll see you in the morning, old man; I'll walk round. Good-night."
Not another word passed between them; a tight hand-grip and they parted. Masters to his rooms, Dick homeward bound—a journey he made with the blood coursing through his veins at boiling point. He had more than a little of his sister's temper.