He hesitated, and then went recklessly on:
“I’ve told you so much, I may as well tell you everything. On the next farm to ours there’s a little, brown-eyed girl––Faith’s her 34 name––and––and––” His new-found flow of words failed, and he ended in unconscious apostrophe:
“To think of growing out of her life, and strange to my father and mother––it’s all so selfish, so hideously selfish!”
“I think I understand,” said the soft voice at his side.
They drove on without a word, the frost-bound road ringing under the horses’ feet, the stars above smiling sympathetic indulgence at this last repetition of the old, old tale of man.
The gentle voice of the collegian broke the silence.
“You say it would be selfish to leave. Is it not right, though, and of necessity, that we think first of self?” He paused, then boldly sounded the keynote of the universe.
“Is not selfishness the first law of nature?” he asked.
Landers opened his lips to answer, but closed them without a word. 35