“He's a needy adventurer, Stephen, a man of no character; who has made a failure of his life solely because he was a man of no character.” “Well, call him what you like; but it isn't helping me to think what I'll tell Aunt Virginia. That's the only thing I've got to worry over!” “I tell you I can arrange it with McKeever!” insisted Benson. “You will just drop out. You are only committed in so far as you foolishly gave your promise to join his company; you were excited, carried away, and did not stop to think of the consequences. Now you have had time to cool off, and you are seeing in what direction your duty lies.” “No, I'm not going to appear ridiculous, or as if I hadn't known my own mind!” said the boy doggedly, but secretly he was rather alarmed by the lawyer's opposition, and he feared that he might take steps in the matter which would humiliate him. “I suppose you had rather appear merely ungrateful,” observed Benson contemptuously. “Well, that's all in the family. Understand, please, you are not to see McKeever, and you are not to say anything to him if you chance to meet him. Please, now—I don't want you to! It's my affair—” “He had no business to accept you.” Benson placed his hand on the young man's shoulder, and let it rest there with a kindly pressure. “Don't you be a fool, Stephen!” he urged gently. “All you have to think about is your Aunt Virginia, her feelings, her anxiety, and suffering, if you enlist!” The boy rounded his shoulder at the touch, and looked up sullenly into his friend's face. “What's the use of your working yourself into a state of mind over this! I tell you it's settled,” he declared, in a tone that he meant should stop further argument. “Think of her!” “I tell you it's settled. Let me stay here with you to-night, and tomorrow you drive out and tell her what I've done, that's where I lose my grip.” “No, I'll have no part in breaking that news to her; but you stay here to-night, and in the morning we'll hunt up McKeever.” But Stephen only shook his head. “I thought you'd help me,” he said, with much dejection of manner. “Not in this, not in the way you wish me to.” But Benson was fast losing his temper. The boy's selfishness, and stupid determination, exasperated him to the last degree. He was feeling infinite pity for Virginia, who for years had done nothing but deny herself for this ingrate, who was proving himself so unworthy of her love. “I didn't think it of you, Stephen,” he said at last, as much in sorrow as in anger. “I looked for better things from you, I did indeed!” The boy burned to vindicate himself. He felt that all his motives were being misjudged; he wanted Benson to understand just why he had enlisted.