“Look at yourself,” she said. He looked. He saw his face like that of a rather unknowing boy upon whom a good-hearted friend had played a delicious joke. He was aware of the face of Constance: it was just beneath and beside his own. And it was laughing under the passion of her hair. He saw that he was laughing also.... He was glad this time to find Tom at home. “My! My!” Tom bantered from his wonted corner. “You are getting gayer all the time. What larks are you up to, anyway?” “I have been to see--Miss Bardale.” A steely glance went through David. “Oh--she.” Tom spoke. And David knew that never, never could he speak of such things to his nearest friend. But he could speak of some things. David came up to him. “Listen, Tom. Am I ever going to grow up?” “I hope not, Davie--altogether.” David sat down beside him. Tom went on: “I rushed home after a business date for dinner. Hoping to find you. I wanted to see you to-night.” “Why?” “For no literal reason, David.... Does one have to have a literal reason for seeing one’s friends? Eh? Does one?” Suddenly, David was uncomfortable. He had felt strong entering the room. He had asked Tom if ever he was going to grow up because just then, perhaps more than at any other time, he felt mature. Now this fine mood faded. It was very strange. He could not adjust to Tom the discoveries of life he made without him. Three evenings before he had come home dancing with romance and Tom had cut his clouds. Now here he was, realistic like a god taking his mortal holiday: and Tom spoke of having missed him and of the love of friends. What was wrong here? Why could he not get rid of the ridiculous idea that Tom was always spoiling his pleasures? “You don’t care for me very much,” there he was saying, “You don’t even come home anxious to see me.” “I did to-night, Tom.” “Yes: after an evening with our fair Constance. I am restful, eh?” David blushed. How unpleasant Tom could be! But he was sorry he had blushed. For Tom looked sharp at him: his face seemed to be coming forward as he looked. Then, he dropped back into his chair and took up his book. With his eyes on it, he spoke casually: “Since you are so friendly with Constance, perhaps you can tell me: has she gotten rid of Stegending? Or is he still agonizing?” David turned pale. “How should I know?” he muttered. Tom smiled at once, knowing he had hurt him. “It is always a mere matter of time till they want to marry her. Then,” he chuckled, “it is--as the doctors say--a mere matter of hours.” David felt the need of striking, as if it had been striking back. Although he had no accurate sense that Tom had attacked him. “You are funny, Tom. You say I never come back anxious to see you: and you seem to find fault that I’ve been out amusing myself for a change. As if you weren’t out ten times more than I.” “I go out for business. If I had my way I’d stay home every blessed night. And tell the hostesses to go to blazes.”