"Yes," she said rather surprised to think of him having known Maury Kebble. Still there was nothing strange about it. "Well, he and I were talking about sweetness a few weeks ago. Oh, I don't know--I said that a man named Howard--that a man I knew was sweet, and he didn't agree with me, and we began talking about what sweetness in a man was: He kept telling me I meant a sort of soppy softness, but I knew I didn't--yet I didn't know exactly how to put it. I see now. I meant just the opposite. I suppose real sweetness is a sort of hardness--and strength." Kieth nodded. "I see what you mean. I've known old priests who had it." "I'm talking about young men," she said rather defiantly. They had reached the now deserted baseball diamond and, pointing her to a wooden bench, he sprawled full length on the grass. "Are these YOUNG men happy here, Kieth?" "Don't they look happy, Lois?" "I suppose so, but those YOUNG ones, those two we just passed--have they--are they---? "Are they signed up?" he laughed. "No, but they will be next month." "Permanently?" "Yes--unless they break down mentally or physically. Of course in a discipline like ours a lot drop out." "But those BOYS. Are they giving up fine chances outside--like you did?" He nodded. "Some of them." "But Kieth, they don't know what they're doing. They haven't had any experience of what they're missing." "No, I suppose not." "It doesn't seem fair. Life has just sort of scared them at first. Do they all come in so YOUNG?" "No, some of them have knocked around, led pretty wild lives--Regan, for instance." "I should think that sort would be better," she said meditatively, "men that had SEEN life." "No," said Kieth earnestly, "I'm not sure that knocking about gives a man the sort of experience he can communicate to others. Some of the broadest men I've known have been absolutely rigid about themselves. And reformed libertines are a notoriously intolerant class. Don't you thank so, Lois?" She nodded, still meditative, and he continued: "It seems to me that when one weak reason goes to another, it isn't help they want; it's a sort of companionship in guilt, Lois. After you were born, when mother began to get nervous she used to go and weep with a certain Mrs. Comstock. Lord, it used to make me shiver. She said it comforted her, poor old mother. No, I don't think that to help others you've got to show yourself at all. Real help comes from a stronger person whom you respect. And their sympathy is all the bigger because it's impersonal." "But people want human sympathy," objected Lois. "They want to feel the other person's been tempted." "Lois, in their hearts they want to feel that the other person's been weak. That's what they mean by human.