He hadn’t quite recovered, yet, from his surprise at the continuing reaction of his friends. He was deeply touched by the realization that even those who were most jocular were 178 regarding him with new respect. Instead of losing caste, he seemed to have risen higher than before; certainly he had never been made to feel so sure of his place in the affection of his own set. And almost more satisfactory than that, the older men in the Citizens Club were treating him with increasing friendliness, whereas in the past, they had treated him rather as an amusing young comedian, to be laughed at, but not with. And finally, he was flattered by the growing intimacy with Mr. Archer.
“A year ago,” Mr. Archer once said to him, “I used to think you were a spoiled brat, Henry. Now I think you’re––rather a credit to your uncle.”
Henry grinned. “And I used to think some very disrespectful things about you, and now I’d rather have you on my side than anybody I know. I must have been a raw egg.”
“You’ll win out yet, my boy––Ted Mix to the contrary notwithstanding.”
“Oh, sure!” said Henry, optimistically. “I don’t gloom much––only fifteen minutes a day in my own room. I got the habit when I was 179 taking my correspondence course on efficiency.” Even in these occasional sessions of gloom, however, (and his estimate of time was fairly accurate) he never felt any acute antagonism either towards his aunt or towards Mr. Mix, he never felt as though he were in competition with them. He was racing against time, and it was the result of his own individual effort which would go down on the record. As to his aunt, she had been perfectly consistent; as to Mr. Mix, Henry didn’t even take the trouble to despise him. He carried over to business one of his principles in sport––if the other fellow wanted so badly to win that he was willing to cheat, he wanted victory more than Henry did, and he was welcome to it. After the match was over, Henry might volunteer to black his eye for him, but that was a side issue.
Mr. Mix had said to him, sorrowfully, at the Citizens Club: “One of the prime regrets of my life, Henry, was that you––the nephew of my old friend––should have suffered––should have been in a position to suffer––from the promotion of civic integrity.”
Henry laughed unaffectedly. “Yes,” he 180 said, “it must have raised perfect Cain with you.”
“I don’t like your tone, Henry. Do you doubt my word?”
“Doubt it? After I’ve just sympathized with the awful torture you must have gone through?... Tell me something; what’s all this gossip I hear about you and Aunt Mirabelle? Somebody saw you buggy-riding last Sunday. Gay young dog!”
Mr. Mix grew red. “Buggy-riding! Miss Starkweather was kind enough to take me out to the lake in her car.”