The echo came to him with a certain grim mockery. There would be very little of that for him. It was to be four years, not of pleasure and inclination, but of seriousness and restraint, if he continued in his decision. For a moment the pagan in him prevailed, and he doubted. Then they passed across High Street, and at their sides the dead shadow of the society tomb suddenly intruded upon them. Which of the group at the end of the long three years would be of the chosen? Which would lead?
"Well, fellows, we go this way," said Bain's methodical voice. "Drop around at the rooms soon. Good night."
Stover, Hunter, and Bain for the moment found themselves together, each striving for the same social honor, each conscious that, whatever an established system might bring to them, with its enforced comradeship, among them would always be the underlying contending spirit of variant ambitions.
Stover felt it keenly, almost with a sharp antagonism that drove from him finally the slumbering rebellion he had felt all that night—the tugging at the bridle of consciousness which had been imposed upon him. This was a bigger thing, a thing that wakened in him the great instincts of combat. He would be a leader among leaders. He would succeed as success was reckoned.
He gave a little laugh and held out his hand to Hunter.
"Good night, Jim," he said.
"Why—good night," said Hunter, surprised at the laugh and the unnecessary handshake.
But the hand had been offered in challenge, and the laugh marked the final deliberate acceptance of all that Le Baron had logically exposed to him.