"Spooky old machine, a banjo, isn't it?" I heard Spoof say at length, and of a sudden I was back on Fourteen, and in the midst of a world which had its share of troubles. "Has an uncanny way of ripping up the past; tombstones, skeletons, everything." Then, to an improvised accompaniment, he began reciting Kipling's poem to the banjo. "It was this poem," he explained, in the midst of his recital, "that caused me to bring a banjo to Canada. Otherwise I should probably have shipped a piano, to the enrichment of the transportation people and my own further financial undoing. I must drop R. K. a line of appreciation." "Still, the piano case would have come handy," Jack suggested. "You might have put your house in it in bad weather." "Almost," said Spoof. But he was back to his theme again, and the wooden wall against which I leaned trembled in sympathy with his strings. ". . . I have told the naked stars the Grief of Man. Let the trumpet snare the foeman to the proof-- I have known defeat and mocked it as we ran. My bray ye may not alter or mistake When I stand to jeer the fatted Soul of Things, But the song of Lost Endeavor that I make Is it hidden in the twangings of the strings?" After that silence fell upon us, and before long Spoof and Burke left on their errand of reprisal. Jean elected to go home soon afterwards, and I accompanied her to Twenty-two. She stood a moment with the door latch in her hand, as though debating with herself whether she should send me home. "You had better come in," she said at length. "There are some things we should talk about." I closed the door behind me and Jean lighted a lamp and removed her wraps. "Come and sit down," she said, making room for me beside her on a bench. I sat down beside her, and would have kissed her, but she drew gently away. "Please don't, Frank," she said, and when her eyes met mine I saw a look in them as of some wild thing wounded to the death. "Jean!" I exclaimed. "Have I hurt you so?" "No, Frank, not you. But I am hurt--hurt," and she pressed her hands about her bosom as though in physical pain. "It is so hard to know--to be sure--what is right!" "How what is right?" "In books--you will understand, Frank--it is always so clear. One is a hero; the other is a villain; it is so easy to know. But in life--I don't suppose there are so many villains after all. That doesn't make it any easier to decide." "I'm afraid I don't quite follow you, Jean." "I suppose you don't, and I shrink from making it more clear to you. Do you know what "The Song of Lost Endeavor" means? Have you sung it--in your heart?" Her voice had dropped almost to a whisper, and her arm, apparently of its own volition, had found its way to my neck. "I don't know that I do," I admitted, "except in a vague way. I suppose it has to do with failure, with knowing one's self to be a failure----" "That's it--and I know. . . . I have tried, and failed." "Jean!"