"O shut up," said the doctor impatiently. "Better men than you have to live without—the women they love—that's foolish talk."
"Well, tell me, doctor," cried Peter desperately, "I just have to know. Is there any reason why I can't hope to win her? Do you know of any reason—you know Pearl well. Is there any reason that you know of? Has any one any right—to stop me from trying?"
The doctor considered. Here was just the situation he had told Pearl he hoped would arise. This young fellow was clean, honest, and there was no doubt of his deep sincerity. He had told Pearl she must forget him. He had tried to mean it, and here it was—here was the very situation he said he hoped for. He would play up—he could make himself do what was right, no matter how he felt.
He heard himself say mechanically:
"There is no reason, Mr. Neelands; Pearl is free to decide. No one has the smallest claim on her."
Peter sprang up and caught his hand, wondering why it should be so cold. He also wondered at the flush which burned on the doctor's cheeks.
"Thanks, old man," he cried impulsively, "I cannot tell you how I thank you. You have rolled a house off me—and now, tell me you wish me well—I want your good word."
The doctor took his outstretched hand, with an effort.
"I wish you well," he said slowly, in a voice that was like a shadow of his own.
When Peter had gone, the doctor rose and paced the floor.