"No--I don't mind--I--that was rather white of you, Bob--thank you," said Stover. He drew a long breath, went to the window and controlled himself. "What are Troutman and Schley going to do?" "They're all broken up," said Story. "Don't wonder." "They won't face it out very long," said Regan, without pity. "Well, it was a pretty hard test," said Stover, coming back--and by that alone they knew what it had meant to him. Despite the giving out of the true story, the atmosphere of scandal still clung to the adventure. His friends rallied stanchly to him, but from many quarters Stover felt the attitude of criticism, and that the thing had been too public not to affect the judgment of the senior societies, already none too well disposed toward him. Stover was sensitively proud, and the thought of how the story had traveled with all its implications wounded him keenly. He had done nothing wrong, nothing for which he had to blush. He had simply acted as a human being, as any decent gentleman would have acted, and yet by a malignant turn of fate he was blackguarded to the outer world, and had given his enemies in college a chance to imply that he had two attitudes--in public and in secret. The next morning came a note to him from Jean Story, the first he had ever had from her--just a few lines. "_My Dear Friend_: "You are coming in soon to see me, aren't you? I shall be very much _honored_. "Most cordially, "JEAN STORY." The note brought a great lump to his throat. He understood what she wished him to understand, her loyalty and her pride in his courage. He read it over and over, and placed it in his pocket-book to carry always--but he did not go at once to see her. He did not want sympathy; he shunned the very thought. Before, in his revolt, he had come against a college tradition, now he was face to face with a social prejudice, and it brought an indignant bitterness. He called every day at the hospital; out of sheer bravado at first, furious at the public opinion that would have him go his way and ignore a human being alone and suffering, even when his motives were pure. At the end of a week he was told that the girl wanted to see him. He found her in a cot among a row of other cots. She was not white and drawn as he had expected, but with a certain flush of color in her face, and lazy eyes that eagerly waited his coming. When he had approached, surprised and a little troubled at her prettiness, she looked at him steadily a long moment until he felt almost embarrassed. Then suddenly she took his hand and carried it to her lips, and her eyes overflowed with tears, as an invalid's do with the strength of any emotion. The nurse motioned him away, and he went, troubled at what his boyish eyes had seen, and the touch of her lips on his hand. "By George, she can't be very bad," he thought. "Poor little girl; she's probably never had half a chance. What the devil will become of her?"