“That is n’t it.” Slade ran his fingers through
his thick black hair and scowled fiercely at the fire¬
place.
“That is n’t it at all. You ’re—you ’re
awfully clean and decent. I’ve been watching you
lots—oh, for a year. You ’re—you ’re different,”
he finished lamely.
Hugh was beginning to understand. “Do you mean,” he asked slowly, “that you want me to keep straight—that—that, well—that you like me that way better?” He was really asking Slade if he admired him, and Slade got his meaning perfectly. To Hugh the idea was preposterous. Why, Slade had made every society on the campus; he had been given every honor that the students could heap on him—and he envied Hugh, an almost unknown sophomore. Why, it was ridiculous. “Yes, that’s what I mean; that’s what I was trying to get at.” For a minute Slade hesitated; he was n’t used to giving expression to his confused emotions, and he did n’t know how to go about it. “I’d—I’d like to be like you; that’s it. I—I did n’t want you to be like me. . , . Those women are awful bags. Anything might happen. ^
“Why didn’t you stop Carl Peters, too, then?”
"Peters knows his way about. He can take care of himself. You’re different, though. .. . . You’ve never been drunk before, have you?”
“No. No, I never have.” Hugh’s irritation was all gone. He was touched, deeply touched, by
