“When are you going?”
“To-night at eight-thirty.”
“Must you? I thought you'd stay—”
“Must!” he said, miserably but proudly.
“I'm so sorry. Well, I'll meet you at Sherry's at five.”
“Don't forget,” he said.
“I won't keep you waiting,” she assured him.
He left the telephone-booth smiling, master of himself. His youth made his sense of relative values imperfect. That made him harrow his own feelings with the utmost ease, and also made him cease the self-torture with equal facility.
He rode up-town, thinking quite comfortably of his departure from New York and of his arrival in Dayton, and succeeded in strengthening his own resolve to put an end to the secret somehow.
He arrived at his college dub. Luck was with him. Rivington, having been a steady loser, was still playing billiards.