He shook his head. “Badly. I’ve no--knack for it. And father and I weren’t meant to pull in double harness.” “You must learn to, Wint. Give him a chance.” He nodded. “But we--grate on each other. He fires up at the least mistake.” “You’ve been hard on his patience.” He stiffened faintly. “Possibly.” She laid her hand on his arm. “Now don’t sulk, Wint. Please.” “I’m not sulking.” “You’re too quick on the trigger. You get angry at the least thing.” She laughed softly, in a way that robbed her words of sting. “Wint, you’re as proud as a peacock, and as stubborn as a mule. As soon as any one criticizes you for doing a thing--you go right off and do it again. That’s no way to do, Wint.” He made no comment, and when she looked at him, she saw that his face was set and hard, and she laid a hand on his arm. “Wint--don’t you think I’m a--good friend of yours?” “If you’re not more than that, Joan--I’m through.” His eyes searched hers; she met his bravely. “I am--more than that, Wint. So you must let me tell you things frankly. Wint, you must learn to see that when people criticize you, or advise you, it’s more often than not because they really wish you well. Most people wish other people well, Wint.” “That has not been my experience.” She shook his arm, laughing. “Wint! Don’t be silly! You talk like a disappointed man--when you ought to talk like a fine, strong, hopeful one.” He laid his hand on hers, where it rested in the crook of his arm. “You’re a big-heart, Joan. You like every one, and trust them and every one is good to you. You--can’t get my viewpoint.” “I can too, Wint. For you haven’t any viewpoint. You’re just the plaything of a little devil of perversity that makes you do things you know you--oughtn’t to do--just to prove that you can.” They came, abruptly, to her gate. She paused to say good-by. His eyes were angry; but he said quietly: “May I come to-night?” She shook her head. “Not every night, Wint. To-morrow?” “Please?” “I--no, Wint.” He straightened stiffly. “Very well. Good night.” He lifted his hat and stalked away. Joan looked after him for a moment, her eyes disturbed, unhappy; then she smiled a tender little smile, as a mother smiles at a wayward boy, and turned into the house. At the corner, Wint looked back. She was gone. He went on toward his own home, Muldoon at his heels, in a hot surge of rebellion. Halfway home, he asked himself what it was that made him rebellious, angry; and when he could find no reasonable answer to this question, he became more angry than ever. He was angry at himself; but he convinced himself that he was angry at others....