Noel's voice was imperious. He was always somewhat impatient of matters beyond his comprehension. But Max turned the subject off. "You're such a peppery chap--always wanting to fight someone. Well, I must be gone. You'll remember not to fight Hunt-Goring?" "No. I shan't fight the brute unless he interferes." Noel followed him to the door and stood a moment. "I say, Max," he suddenly said, "was this affair Hunt-Goring's doing?" "What affair?" Max spoke as one bored with the subject. But Noel persisted. "Was it thanks to Hunt-Goring that this split with Olga came about?" Max faced about. There was a very peculiar smile in his green eyes. "Well," he said very deliberately, "I don't say Hunt-Goring's influence has been exactly a genial one. But that fact in itself would not have much difference. The main reason is the one I have given you. If you are not satisfied with that--then you will never be satisfied with anything--and you won't deserve to be." He held out his hand. "Good-bye, lad! And again--good luck!" Noel wrung the hand. They looked each other in the eyes, and Noel spoke impulsively as his habit was, but with genuine feeling. "Good-bye, old chap! I hope you'll get to the tip-top of the tree and stay there." He added, seeing Max's mouth go down, "But I know very well there's a bigger thing than success in the world, and if I can ever help you to it--by God, old boy, I will!" He said it hurriedly, expecting it to be received with irony. But there was no trace of cynicism left in Max's face as he gave him a final grip, and turned away with the one word: "Thanks!" When he had gone, Noel returned to the room with sober gait, and paused in the middle of it to pick up his sword. "I wonder if he cares much," he murmured half aloud. He stood by the table with eyes absently fixed, going over in his mind the conversation that had just passed, recalling the leisurely, supercilious tones, the semi-ironical kindness with which his brother had revealed the situation. Why had he troubled himself to do so? For a space Noel wondered. And then very suddenly the words, "You've got to worship her always," flashed through his mind. Those words were the key to everything. He realized that fully. And again he was conscious of shame. Yes, Max did care. That was beyond all questioning. He cared enough to do what he--Noel--had wholly failed to do. His love was great enough to efface itself, a form of love--the rarest and the highest--of which he himself was as yet incapable. He could stand between the girl and death without a second's hesitation; but he could not live and sacrifice his happiness to hers. Again the hot blood mounted to his forehead and slowly sank again. And in those few moments Noel Wyndham stepped into manhood and faced his soul anew. If she loved him, he would marry her and give her all he had; withholding nothing. She should not be a loser because she had loved him better than Max.