"I do. That is, I want to ask you this: Suppose you had done something that you thought was all right and—and somebody else had thought was wrong—would you—would you go and tell that other person that you were wrong? Even if you weren't, you know."
Kendrick was silent. The question was ridiculous enough, but he did not laugh, nor feel like laughing. Nor did he want to answer.
"Oh, I know that it's a child's question," put in Kent, disgustedly. "Never mind answering. I am a child sometimes, feel like one, anyhow. And I've got to fight this out with myself, I suppose, so what's the use?"
He turned on his heel, but the captain laid a hand on his shoulder.
"George," he said, slowly, "of course, the way you put this thing makes it pretty foggy navigatin' for a stranger; but—humph!—well, in cases somethin' like yours, when I've cared anything about the—er—friendship of the other fellow, I've generally found 'twas good business to go and say I was sorry first, and then, if 'twas worth while, argue the point of who was right or wrong later. You never can do much fishin' through the ice unless somebody chops the hole."
The young man was silent. He seemed to be reflecting and to find his reflections not too pleasant. Before they were at an end the first group of townspeople came up the steps. Some of them paused to greet Kendrick and at their heels was another group. The captain was chatting with them when he heard Kent's voice at his ear.
"Excuse me, Cap'n," he whispered. "I'll see you by and by. I'm going to chop the ice."
"Eh?... Oh, all right, George. Good luck."
George hurried up the stairs. A minute or two later Captain Sears slowly limped after him and sought a secluded corner on one of the settees at the rear of the hall. There was still a full half hour before the rising of the curtain, and as yet there was but a handful of people present. He turned his face away from the handful and hoped that he might not be recognized. He did not feel like talking. His good spirits had left him. He was blue and despondent and discouraged. And for no reason—that was the worst of it—no earthly, sensible, worth while reason at all.
Those two children—that is what they were, children—had quarreled and that was why Elizabeth had asked to ride to the hall with him that evening. It was not because she cared for his company; of course he knew that all the time, or would have known it if he permitted himself to reason. She had gone with him because she had quarreled with George. And that young idiot's conscience had troubled him and, thanks to his own—Kendrick's—advice, he had gone to her now to beg pardon and make up. And they would make up. Children, both of them.