The retort was easy, and would have crushed him; but James did not make it. Let him have his pitiful triumph. He was not angry any more; he couldn't be--and there was Lucy to be thought of. What would Urquhart think of a Lucy who could have revealed such things as these? He would have judged her brazen, little knowing the warm passion of her tears. Ah, not for him these holy moments. No, let him die thinking honour of her--honour according to his own code. He put his hand out and touched Urquhart's face with the back of it. "Let us leave it at this," he said; "we both love her. We are neither of us fit. She would have taken either of us. But I came first, and then came Lancelot--and she loves the law. Put it no other way." "The law, the law!" said the fretful, smitten man. "The law of her nature," said James. He felt Urquhart's piercing eyes to be upon him and schooled himself to face them and to smile into them. To his surprise he saw them fill with tears. "You are a good chap," Urquhart said. "I never knew that before." Macartney blew his nose. No more was said, but the sufferer now allowed him to do what he would. He chafed his hands and arms with brandy; took off his boots and chafed his feet. He succeeded in getting a certain warmth into him, and into himself too. He began to be hopeful. "I think I shall pull you through," he told him. "You ought to be a pretty hard case. I suppose you don't know how you came to fall so badly." "Well, I do," Urquhart said. "Don't tell me if you'd rather not." "Oh, what does it matter now? It was a whim." James smiled. "Another whim?" "Yes--and another fiasco. You see, in a way, I had dared you to come." "I admit that." "Well, I hadn't played fair. I knew, and you didn't, that it was a bad job. You can't get down this way--not when the snow's like this." "Oh, can't you?" "I think not. Well, I ought to have told you. I was tempted. That's the worst thing I ever did. I ask your pardon for that." "You have it, old chap," said James. "You can afford to be magnanimous," Urquhart snapped out fiercely. "Damn it, you have everything. But I felt badly about it as I was going down, and I thought, 'They'll feel the break, and know it's all over. So I cut the painter--do you see?" "Yes," said James, "I see." He did indeed see. Urquhart began to grow drowsy and to resent interference. He was too far gone to think of anything but the moment's ease. James, on the other hand, was entirely absorbed in his patient. "I'm not going to let you sleep," he said. "It's no good making a fuss. I've got the kinch on you now." It was as much as he had. The air was biting cold, and the colder it got the more insistent on sleep Urquhart became.