Fenton puffed on in silence for a time, and then leaned forward and took the roll of manuscript from Richard’s hand. Hesitating an instant, as if to make sure that the decision he had reached was irrevocable, he threw the bundle of paper into the fire. Richard sprang forward, but Fenton seized him by the arm and forced him back into his seat. “Let it burn, Richard. Let it burn. It has had two narrow escapes from publication already. It shall never have another.” “But are you mad, John? The story would make you famous. Good Heavens, man! it is too late. I call it a crime, John, a crime! Do you hear?” “Come, come, Richard! don’t grow hysterical,” remarked Fenton calmly, as he leaned back in his chair and resumed his cigar, to dissipate the odor of burnt paper that filled the room. “But why, John, did you do such a reckless thing? You’re the last man in the world to act like a child.” Fenton remained silent for some moments, and then said gently,-- “We can’t hark back in this life, Richard. Time is an inexorable tyrant. If you try to take a liberty with him you are certain to be punished. What I wrote in my youth would do no credit to my maturity--no matter what you or a publisher or the public might say to the contrary. One of the strangest things about the life of an intellectual man, Richard, is that his views regarding the fundamental problems of existence are in a constant state of change. How we regard death and love and friendship and immortality, and other matters of more or less significance, at twenty-five has little, if anything, to do with the way we look at these matters twenty years later. I know of no greater wrong you could do to a man of intelligence than to present to him in type a record of the opinions he openly expressed ten years ago, and inform him that it was imperative that he should go before the public on that basis. In fact, Richard, I have grown very suspicious of those chameleons we so proudly call convictions. Lucky is the man who can reach middle life and still feel absolutely certain that two and two make four.” Richard remained silent for a time after Fenton had ceased to speak, but finally said gently,-- “I think, John, that I can see as much through a knot-hole as most men of my age, when the points of interest are called to my attention; but I must acknowledge that I had never expected to hear you preach the doctrine of uncertainty.” “You mistake me, boy. I preach nothing!” exclaimed Fenton, arising and peering at his watch in the darkness. “Nothing but the glorious doctrine that hard work is the only relief from futile questionings. Good-night, my boy. I am sorry to rush off, but I must get to the office at once. And you?” “Can’t you guess?” asked Richard, smiling. “I might if I tried,” answered Fenton, holding his friend’s hand a moment; “but I sha’n’t try. But bear in mind, Richard, that the glory of a renunciation lies in the strength of the temptation.”