“David, I am sorry! I am sorry for so many things. But I love you, David. I am your real friend.... You believe that, don’t you?” “Tom, I don’t know how.” “What have I done to make you doubt my friendship?” David’s chance! Simple and naked stood the issue between them. Let him but meet it. Had he not grievances enough? No: he would not say “grievances.” Had he not reasons--inexorable reasons? He sat there, looking away toward the window. Swiftly, now, it was getting dark. The frame of the window seemed very far away--dimly etched out against the surrounding darkness. The window was light. With a vague stir that was heliotropic, David gazed on it. His mind had the sudden need of grasping reasons. Reasons were scurrying, scattering, melting away. His reasons--his reasons for doubting that Tom was his friend! Where were they? Why did he want reasons, after all? Was not Tom sitting there with tears in his eyes no dimmer than this light, pleading for faith? Had he not previously understood with a rare insight he was proud of, the problem of Tom? Here he was, collecting reasons, picking up reasons! Missiles to strike with? Why? Why not? Was he not unhappy with Tom? Was not his whole life poisoned by this poison that hid in their friendship? He was not seeking stones to attack with, he was seeking defense. Many reasons there were, if only he could fasten his mind--how strange it was swerving about!--to take them up. Tom said: “I know--I know--I know----” He was mentioning faults. He was proving they were no reasons. “But we are friends, Davie. Oh, do you not _feel_ there is no one I love like you? Not my sister, Davie! No one. Everything I would throw away to help you. My work, my ambitions--what makes them bearable, David, except your friendship? Can’t you understand....” There was something wrong. Under the precision of Tom’s words, something wrong. Above the clouded stretch of Tom’s emotions, something wrong. Something wrong. The reasons! For God’s sake, the reasons! David began to stammer: “You tell Lunn and Durthal you are their friend. To me you run them down. How should I know ...?” He stopped. Tom was silent. No: this was no reason. David _could_ know. David needed no proof. He had to forgive these stupid relationships of Tom. “How should you know?” asked Tom. “Ask yourself, David.” Groping again. There sat his friend. He felt him like a flame in the dark. Why was he, David, crouched there, gathering strength to strike him? Why could he not _accept_ him?... Past pains, past miseries. He had not wanted better than to accept him. What had cast him off? Surely not his desire? Tom it was, who made him not accept him. He was not fighting. He was holding himself safe. By God! holding himself clean. Reasons! Reasons against Tom!