“Besides,” said Somers, “why should you trust me with _anything_, let alone everything. You’ve no occasion to trust me at all--except--except as one neighbour trusts another, in common honour.” “Common honour!” Jack just caught up the words, not heeding the sense. “It’s more than common honour. It’s most uncommon honour. But look here,” he seemed to rouse himself. “Supposing I came to you, to ask you things, and tell you things, you’d answer me man to man, wouldn’t you?--with common honour? You’d treat everything I say with common honour, as between man and man?” “Why, yes, I hope so.” “I know you would. But for the sake of saying it, say it. I can trust you, can’t I? Tell me now, can I trust you?” Somers watched him. Was it any good making reservations and qualifications? The man was in earnest. And according to standards of commonplace honour, the so-called honour of man to man, Somers felt that he would trust Callcott, and that Callcott might trust him. So he said simply: “Yes.” A light leaped into Jack’s eyes. “That means you trust me, of course?” he said. “Yes,” replied Somers. “Done!” said Jack, rising to his feet and upsetting the chessmen. Somers also pushed his chair, and rose to his feet, thinking they were going across to the next house. But Jack came to him and flung an arm round his shoulder and pressed him close, trembling slightly, and saying nothing. Then he let go, and caught Somers by the hand. “This is fate,” he said, “and we’ll follow it up.” He seemed to cling to the other man’s hand. And on his face was a strange light of purpose and of passion, a look at once exalted and dangerous. “I’ll soon bring the others to see it,” he said. “But you know I don’t understand,” said Somers, withdrawing his hand and taking off his spectacles. “I know,” said Jack. “But I’ll let you know everything in a day or two. Perhaps you wouldn’t mind if William James--if Jaz came here one evening--or you wouldn’t mind having a talk with him over in my shack.” “I don’t mind talking to anybody,” said the bewildered Somers. “Right you are.” They still sat for some time by the fire, silent; Jack was pondering. Then he looked up at Somers. “You and me,” he said in a quiet voice, “in a way we’re mates and in a way we’re not. In a way--it’s different.” With which cryptic remark he left it. And in a few minutes the women came running in with the sweets, to see if the men didn’t want a macaroon. On Sunday morning Jack asked Somers to walk with him across to the Trewhellas. That is, they walked to one of the ferry stations, and took the ferry steamer to Mosman’s Bay. Jack was a late riser on Sunday morning. The Somers, who were ordinary half-past seven people, rarely saw any signs of life in Wyewurk before half-past ten on the Sabbath--then it was Jack in trousers and shirt, with his shirt-sleeves rolled up, having a look at his dahlias while Vicky prepared breakfast.