And it excited and elated Irving. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket; he sat for a moment looking out of the window with dreamy eyes and an unconscious smile. Lawrence was succeeding, was going to succeed, in a way far different from his own—if his own college course could be said in any sense to have terminated in success. Lawrence would have the athletic and the social experience which he had never had; Lawrence would be popular as he had never been; Lawrence would go brilliantly through college as he had never done. Everything now was in Lawrence’s reach, and he was a boy who would not be spoiled or led astray by the achievement of temporary glories. In the vision of his brother’s triumphant career, Irving was transported from the troubles and perplexities, from the self-reproaches and the doubts which had been making him unhappy. He wanted now to share his happiness, to take the boys into his confidence—but one can share one’s happiness only with one’s friends. There was Westby, aggrieved and hostile; there was Carroll, sitting next to him, the queer, quizzical, silent youth, with whom Irving had been entirely unable to establish any relation of intimacy; no, there were no boys at his table with whom he was intimate enough to appeal for their interest and congratulations. And feeling this, he shrank from communicating the news,—though he felt sure that even Westby, who was going to Harvard the next year, might be interested in it; he shrank from anything like boasting. He found an outlet soon; Barclay came to see him that evening. “I looked for you this afternoon, after the giving out of the prizes,” said Barclay. “But I couldn’t find you.” “No, I didn’t wait for that. Did you make a speech? I heard the boys laughing and cheering as I came away.” “Oh, yes, I got off a few stale jokes and some heavy-footed persiflage. It went well enough.—But I looked for you afterwards because I felt I may have seemed rather short when you came up; the truth is, I was racking my brain at that moment; Scarborough had just sprung the fact on me that I must make the speech.” “Oh, it was all right,” said Irving. “I’m sorry to have bothered you at such a time. I was just a little agitated because Westby was rather angry over being penalized in the hundred—” “So I hear. Well, it was hard luck in a way—but after all you had a perfect right to penalize him; he did foul, and he ought to be sport enough to take the consequences.” “I suppose it wouldn’t have been—it wouldn’t be possible to run the race over?” “Certainly not. Besides, Westby has no right to say that if he’d started even with Flack, he’d have beaten him. It’s true that he gained half a yard on Flack in the race; but it’s also true that Flack knew he had that much leeway. There’s no telling how much more Flack might have done if he’d had to. So if Westby says anything to me, I shall tell him just that.” “I feel sorry about the thing anyway. I’m sorry I made a mess of it—as usual.”