"No; but I want to tell you while I may that it has come very near to me in these last few days. At first I was inclined to make another query of it, and to speculate as to your probable motive; but latterly I've come to call it by its right name." Jeffard shakes his head slowly, and removes his pipe to say: "Don't make any more mistakes, Lansdale. I'm neither better nor worse than I was that night when I told you the story of the man and his temptation. I know what you mean and what you would say; but this experiment and its results--the twenty odd pounds of flesh you have put on, and the new lease of life they stand for--mean more to me than they do to you." "I don't begin to understand the drift of that," says Lansdale. "No? I wonder if you would understand and believe if I should tell you the truth; if I should confess that my motive, so far as you are concerned, is entirely selfish?" "Since understanding implies belief, I shall have to say no to that. But you might try,--for your own satisfaction." "It's altogether unprofitable; but perhaps it's your due. I'll have to go back a little to make it clear. In the old days we were pretty good friends, but I think you will admit that there have always been reservations. You haven't known me and I haven't known you as friends of the David and Jonathan sort know each other. Isn't that so?" Lansdale is constrained to say "Yes," wishing it were otherwise. Jeffard refills his pipe and fishes for another live coal in the fire-fringe. The _g-r-r-rh_ of the grazing horses comes from the near-by glade, and again the silence begins to grow. Suddenly he says: "Let's drop it, Lansdale, and talk about something else." "No, go on; nothing you can say will efface the brotherly fact." "Very well,--if you will have it. You said you were inclined to question my motive. It was more than questionable; it was frankly selfish." "Selfish? You'll have to spell it out large for me. From my point of view it seems rather the other way about. What had you to gain by saddling yourself with the care of a sick man?" "I can't put it in words--not without laying myself open to the charge of playing to the gallery. But let me state a fact and ask a question. A year ago you thought it was all up with you, and you didn't seem to care much. A few months later I found you fighting for your life like a shipwrecked sailor with land in sight. What did it?" That the lava-crust of reserve is altogether molten is evinced in Lansdale's straightforward reply. "Love,--love for a woman. I think you must have known that." "I did. That was why you were making the desperate fight for life; and that is why we are here to-night, you and I. I love the woman, too." Lansdale shakes his head slowly, and an ineffable smile is Jeffard's reward. "And yet you call it selfishness, Henry. Man, man! you have deliberately gone about to save my life when another might have taken it!"