Braith so seldom swore, that the round oath with which he broke into their vocal exercises stopped them through sheer astonishment. But Clifford, determined on self-assertion and loving an argument, especially out of season, turned on Braith and began: “Why should not Youth love?” “Love! Bah!” said Braith. “Why Bah?” he persisted, stimulated by the disgust of Braith. “Now if a man—take Elliott, for example—” “Take yourself,” cried the other. “Well—myself, for example. Suppose when my hours of weary toil are over—returning to my lonely cell, I encounter the blue eyes of Ninette on the way, or the brown eyes of Cosette, or perhaps the black eyes of—” Braith stamped impatiently. “Lisette,” said Clifford, sweetly. “Why should I not refresh my drooping spirits by adoring Lisette—Cos—- ” “Oh, come, you said that before,” said Gethryn. “You’re getting to be a bore, Clifford.” “You at least can no longer reproach me,” said the other, with a quick look that increased Gethryn’s embarrassment. “Let him talk his talk of bewitching grisettes, and gay students,” said Braith, more angry than Rex had ever seen him. “He’s never content except when he’s dangling after some fool worse than himself. Damn this ‘Bohemian love’ rot! I’ve been here longer than you have, Clifford,” he said, suddenly softening and turning half apologetically to the latter, who nodded to intimate that he hadn’t taken offense. “I’ve seen all that shabby romance turn into such reality as you wouldn’t like to face. I’ve seen promising lives go out in ruin and disgrace—here in this very street—in this very house—lives that started exactly on the lines that you are finding so mighty pleasant just now.” Clifford was in danger of being silenced. That would never do. “Papa Braith,” he smiled, “is it that you too have been through the mill? Shall I present your compliments to the miller? I’m going. Come, Elliott.” Elliott took up his hat and followed. “Braith,” he said, “we’ll drink your health as we go through the mill.” “Remember that the mill grinds slowly but surely,” said Braith. “He speaks in parables,” laughed Clifford, halfway downstairs, and the two took up the catch they had improvised, singing, “Lisette—Cosette—Ninette—” in thirds more or less out of tune, until Gethryn shut the door on the last echoes that came up from the hall below. Gethryn came back and sat down, and Braith took a seat beside him, but neither spoke. Braith had his pipe and Rex his cigarette. When the former was ready, he began to speak. He could not conceal the effort it cost him, but that wore away after he had been talking a while.