“I’ve about concluded,” he said harshly, “that the fellows who keep to the herd are the sensible ones.”
The words conveyed no meaning to Helen Northrup, but the tones did.
“Sit down, dear,” she said calmly. “If this shower strikes us, I do not want to be alone.”
Northrup drew a chair to the window and the red flashes lighted his face luridly.
“Having ideals is rot. Dying for them, madness. Mother, it’s all over between Kathryn and me!”
Helen’s own development had done more for her than she would ever realize, but from out its strength and security she spoke:
“Brace, I am glad! Now you can live your ideals.”
Northrup turned sharply.
“What do you mean?” he said.