Lawson began to have a feeling he was playing for more than the victory of the team game. He grew more and more anxious about it each day, and more and more set in his resolve to win. Once only had he played a losing part in life and the thought of that when it touched him, filled him with sickening revolt.
"We'll win!" he declared one afternoon, after a discussion of the other players.
"You are sure?"
"Quite!"
They were standing at her door. The quadrangle was deep in twilight, the lights pricking the dusk here and there; some students were chaffing each other gayly far up the corridor, a negro lad was hurrying with a hod of coal for a belated fire he should have started an hour ago.
Frances was leaning back against the door, her hand behind her on the door-knob. "It's well to feel confident!" she said lightly, fighting against something she heard in the tones of his voice.
"Is it? Should one always be confident?" he asked eagerly.
"It's not a safe rule always," she fended. She heard the little exclamation he made under his breath. "But it is a help generally," she added, foolishly striving to undo the hurt she scarcely comprehended.
"And there's no rule for it, like everything else, but a blind follow-your-leader," he said bitterly.
"If the leader be wise," laughing nervously.