"Yes, you. I don't mean--I'm in earnest now; I hate to see a good man chucking a good profession, and, unless he steadies down, he is bound to chuck it--I don't mean any nonsense about your owing it to him. I mean that you can hold him steady longer than anybody else." "Not you?" Opdyke's accent was incredulous. "My grip on him is gone. In the past, I may have helped him. All I could say, this afternoon, only rubbed him the wrong way, and increased the notion that he's cherishing, the notion that he's an uncomprehended genius. In heaven's name, Reed," and Whittenden's fist came crashing down on the arm of his chair; "is anything in this whole world more hard to fight than that same pose of being misunderstood? Nine times out of ten, it is mere pose. The tenth time, it is mere paranoia, and hence more manageable. No. My hold on Brenton is all gone. As I say, he has outgrown me; I still believe in my immortal soul, and a few such other trifles that no laboratory can prove. To be sure, you believe them, too; but, if you're going to manage Brenton, keep the beliefs tucked out of sight." "Where's my hold on him, then?" Reed queried. Whittenden, bending forward, laid his hand across the rug. "This," he said quietly; and, strange to say, the words brought no sting to Reed Opdyke's mind. Nevertheless, he objected to the fact. "It seems so much like gallery play, Whittenden," he urged. "It's a bit nasty to be making capital out of a thing like that." Whittenden shook his head, as, settling back again, he flung his hand up into the old resting place. "Not if it's given you for just that purpose," he answered then. "No, Reed, hear me out. It never has been your way to dodge responsibilities; in the end, you're sure to buck up against this one, so you may as well take it now as ever. This thing appears to be your present asset. Properly managed, it can bring you no end of influence. Your friends, who really know you, will watch you hanging on to yourself like grim death; and, in time, they'll come to where they'll trust your grip to pull them out of danger, too, when they get to funking. It's an almighty hard job you've got ahead of you, and an endless one; still, knowing you, I know you will put it through and come out of it with your colours flying. Meanwhile," the clear eyes came back to focus; "hang on to Brenton." "If I can." "As long as you can, I mean. The time may come when, like myself, you'll have to let him go. In the mean time, though, he is worth the holding." "Brenton is pure gold," Reed said quietly. "I have known him for many years." But his companion shook his head. "Gold, if you will; but not the purest. There is a dash of alloy we may as well admit, at the start. Else, it will only muddle things, later on. Brenton is good stuff, but a little weak. There's something in him that always will make him stumble and fall down just short of his ideals."