"It would be a pleasure to point out to you," Wandel drawled, "that a lot of people aren't half as big fools as you've credited them with being. You looked a little what you were at first. You've probably forgotten that when you matriculated you put down a place of residence, a record easily available for one who saw, as I did, means of using you. Even a fool could have guessed something was up the night Betty was good enough to make herself a part of the _beau monde_. I gathered a lot from Lambert then." "Yet," George said, almost indifferently, "you went on being a friend." "Your political manager, George," Wandel corrected. "I'm not sure it would have gone much further if it hadn't been for Dicky." George was thoroughly aroused at last. "Did Dicky know?" "Not mere facts," Wandel answered. "What difference did they make? But he could see what you had started from, how great the climb you were taking. That's why he liked and admired you, because of what you were, not because of what you wanted people to think you were. That's really what first attracted me to you, and it amused me to see you fancying you were getting away with so much more than you really were." "Extraordinary!" George managed. "Then the heights are not so well guarded?" "Ah, yes--guarded," Wandel said, "but not against great men." George kicked at the ground with his heel. "Funny how unimportant it all seems here," he muttered. It wasn't only the surroundings that made it seem unimportant; it was his remembrance of Sylvia who had known more than Wandel, more than anybody, yet had never opened the gate. "You've taken all my conceit away," he went on. "Once it might have made me want to put myself out. Now I'm quite content to let Jerry do it." Wandel's voice warmed, was less affected than George had ever heard it. "What are you talking about? You've won a great victory. You should carry laurels on your brow. You've climbed to the top. You've defined for us all a possible socialism." George smiled. "A hell of a thing to talk about here! But tell that to Squibs, will you, little man, when you get back? We've had some rare battles over it." Wandel hurried on. "You've made yourself one of us, if it's any satisfaction. You're as good as the best of us--of the inheritors." George folded his arms on his knees and bowed his head. Wandel's voice was startled. "What's up?" "Maybe I'm crying," George mumbled. "Ought to be, because I'm so filthy tired, and I know you're wrong, Driggs. I'm rotten inside. I haven't even started to climb." But when he looked up there were no tears in his eyes, and his dirty face had altered with its old whimsical smile. "Besides, it's enough to make me cry to know you wouldn't say all this unless you were certain I'm going to be killed." "Hope not," Wandel laughed, "but picnics are full of germs. What's this?"