I went down in the train with Pendleton and briskly suggested that he need not hurry with his arrangements.
"I thought," said he, with a furtive, sidelong glance at me, "that my first duty was to ease you. I owe you too much already," he added, looking out toward the drabness of the Mt. Vernon right of way.
"It's only strangers and enemies that owe each other things;" I countered easily. "Friends owe each other everything and nothing. There is no audit for such accounts."
He laughed out of proportion to the deserts of this lump of wisdom and exclaimed:
"You're great, Randolph—great!"
It was my turn to laugh, and I felt that I had the advantage of him. With the sixth sense, or the pineal gland, or whatever it is, I was conscious that he was a little afraid of me—and that did not damage my temper.
"Your experience in life has been so—peculiar," I told him, "that anybody would be glad to be of any service possible. And you must remember that Laura was my only sister. Tell me," I added conversationally, "don't you find the harness galling at times after all—you have been through?"
"Galling! Say, Randolph, those little machine people in their skyscraper beehives—cages—don't know what living is!—Freedom!" ...
For the first time I had noted the light of spontaneity glowing in his eyes, and my heart bounded: I was about to hear a confession. But on a sudden he checked himself and looked away. "Of course," he added in a forced tone, "one has to face one's responsibilities. No—take it all in all, I am glad to be doing my share of the work and carrying my burden."
I knew he was lying. I knew that his first outburst was the true Pendleton; that the addendum was meant, as politicians say, for home consumption.