And that, at first, was all that I could get out of him--the admission that they had just talked. When I pressed for details he said: "Oh, we just talked about things in general, you know--about Helen, of course--and June, and Severn himself...." The odd thing was that he was no longer even remotely angry with Severn. He was sorry for him; he wanted to help him; he talked almost as if Severn were a pathetic little weakling instead of a man who, whatever his deficiencies, could at least take care of himself. "Severn isn't really a bad fellow," he assured me, and I agreed most cordially that he wasn't. "The real truth is," he continued, "that he's unhappy. He wouldn't let _you_ see it, but he couldn't stop _me_ from seeing it. He's unhappy because he's really very fond of Helen, and always has been.... And that's why we must help him." "It isn't much good being fond of her if she isn't fond of him," I said. He stared uneasily at the floor. "She _might_ be fond of him," he replied, at length, "if--if somebody would _help_ her." "In other words, they are both to be helped into each other's arms?" "That's right!" "And what does Severn think of the idea?" "I--I don't know. I didn't ask him anything except to go back to Helen immediately, and he promised to do that." "So that the reunion idea is entirely yours?" "Yes." "And you're going to work it out entirely by yourself?" "No, no, I'm not. _You're_ going to _help_ me." "Another link in this encircling chain of help!" "Don't--_don't_ make fun." I could have cried when he said that. I hated myself for the sarcasm, but the motive was sincere enough--just anger with him for thinking so much of everybody except himself. I saw him as he was, pale and haggard and on the verge of a breakdown; needing, above all things, rest, and yet, by sheer perversity of fate, embarking upon this grandiloquent scheme for helping people who, if they needed help at all, were very well able to help themselves. It was more than absurd; it was monstrous. And when he said "Don't make fun," it was more even than monstrous; it was pitiable. I told him contritely that I hadn't been making fun, and that all I wanted was for him to see my point of view. I had always been perfectly frank with him, and---- "Not always," he interrupted. "What do you mean?" He said quietly: "You weren't frank with me about the quarrel you had with Helen." Ever since Severn had revealed the matter, I had been preparing for Terry mentioning it, but I hadn't guessed that he would save it up with such uncanny accuracy for the awkwardest moment of all. "Why did you quarrel?" he persisted. I said that the word 'quarrel' wasn't a very apt one; the whole thing had been more of a "tiff"--a minor sort of thing that ought to have been forgotten long before. "Ought to have been," he said, "but wasn't. Why not?" "There haven't been chances. Helen's been out of England nearly all the time." "Not one chance of reconciliation--in seven years?"