That night Bob and I were in our room, studying an immortal oration, when there came a tap at the door. The young man frowned at the interruption and putting aside his book, went himself to the door. "Come in," he said, stepping back stiffly. And the doctor entered. It was the first time for years that I had seen him in that room and all three of us felt the embarrassment of the visit. "Sit down," my master invited, placing a chair for him. He took the seat, leaned for a moment toward the cheerful blaze, then straightening up, remarked upon the coldness of the night. Master said something in reply and I knew that they were skirmishing; that something must soon follow--through their politeness I saw a deadly hatred. "How long does that man expect to stay?" the doctor asked. "What man?" master spoke up, with an air of surprise. "Marston, of course." "Why of course?" The doctor turned nervously, looked at me and said: "Will you please move a little?" motioning with his hand, "You are too close to me." "Dan," said master, "sit over there." I went over to the window, the place where I had stood one night and looked down upon a quarrel between Old Master and the doctor. "Why of course?" master repeated. "Thought you knew the man I meant." "He and almost all other men had passed out of my mind, sir," said the young man, leaning with his elbow upon the table. "There are times when I don't think of man, but of what man has said." The doctor coughed. "Don't you think there's just a little pretense in all that--this learned abstraction?" "If there's any pretense at all it is just a little. I know men who have more than a little pretense." For a time they were silent, listening to the crackling of the fire. "But I didn't come to bicker," said the doctor. "Didn't you? Have the revivalists brought about a change of heart?" "I have come to tell you good-bye," said the doctor, graciously overlooking my master's remark. "Oh, to tell me good-bye? When do you expect to go?" "Possibly to-night--surely in the morning." "Expect to be gone long?" "I may never return." "You expect to be gone then some time?" They looked at each other. "It would seem so," said the doctor. And then he added: "I am going South." "That's all right," said master. "It really makes no difference which way you go." "You are getting old enough to pass from annoyance to insult," the doctor replied. "Yes," said master, "one is supposed to progress." "True," replied the doctor, "but premature progress argues premature decay. Kentucky is full of the dusty shells of young hopefuls. Sometimes at nineteen a boy gives promise of becoming a great orator; at twenty-five he is a haggler--at forty, forgotten. I have known it to be the case." "Yes," said master, leaning heavier upon the table, "some men change while others are always the same--with low instincts and only the sharpness that appears to be the inheritance of the scoundrel."