"It's no disgrace," Bailly said, mildly.
"It is—for me."
He didn't like Bailly's long, slightly pained scrutiny. There was no use keeping things from him anyway.
"I can trust you, Mr. Bailly," he said, quickly, and in a very low voice, as if the walls might hear: "I know you won't give me away. I—I was too much like a servant until the day I came to Princeton. I've sworn I'd never be again. I can't touch that job. I tell you I'd rather starve."
"To do so," Bailly remarked, drily, "would be a senseless suicide. You'll appreciate some day, young man, that the world lives by service."
George wondered why he glanced at the untidy table with a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.
"I'm also sorry to learn your ambition is not altogether unselfish, or altogether worthy."
George longed to make Bailly understand.
"It was forced on me," he said. "I worked in my father's livery business until he failed. Then I had to go to a rich man's stable. I was treated like dirt. Nobody would have anything to do with me. They won't here, probably, if they find out."
"Never mind," Bailly sighed. "We will seek other means. Let us get on with our primers."