"You won't ask me in?" sneered Landon. "That's more than I can expect." "Some of the fellows might look in on me--decent fellows," explained Aylmer, drily. Landon gave a little gasp, halted, and leaned suddenly against the wall. He looked up at his cousin. His lips worked, he stammered, he broke into a panting storm of sobs. "I didn't deserve that! My God! I didn't deserve that!" he cried. Aylmer looked down at him and a tiny thrill of compunction shot through him. He hesitated. He did not believe in Landon's protestations. He knew, in every instinct of his nature, that Landon was a scoundrel. But he began to remember that it had not always been so. Things that had brought them together as boys came back to him. His memory suddenly framed a picture of that wedding nine years ago. Landon had gone to meet his bride gallantly, adoringly, that day. He had loved her then. Yes, he could not have acted that, he had loved her then. And Landon, watching narrowly his cousin's face, read the emotions as they chased each other across it as if they had been writ upon an open page. He hugged himself mentally. "That's what knocks him!" he told himself triumphantly. "The abased ingenuous sinner! A little more of that and, Great Nicholas! I have him by the short hairs!" He pulled himself together with a well-acted effort. He turned and drew back. "You cur!" he cried. "You cur, to hit at a man who's down!" Aylmer's tanned cheek showed through it a tiny flush. The dart had gone home. "When you prove that an apology's due, I'll make it." "In the street!" sneered Landon. "I'm to shout my wrongs, tell you all the intimate story of my provocation before the town. Thank you for nothing!" Aylmer made a little movement of the hand which implied irritation. "You can come to my quarters," he said, "but--" "This evening?" "No, this evening I'm dining out. You can come to my quarters. Until you give me reason to alter my opinion I don't introduce you to my friends. Is that understood?" Landon stood silent for another instant before he answered slowly. "Yes," he agreed. "You've read and been told enough to excuse you. Yes, I'll come. And in half an hour you'll be begging my pardon, or--" He shrugged his shoulders. "Or what?" said Aylmer, quietly. "Or I shall know you've made up your mind not to be convinced." And then a sudden taciturnity overtook him. He marched along at his cousin's side, his eyes bent upon the pavement, his brows contracted. He had the appearance of one who considers deeply. John Aylmer made no attempt to resume conversation. He concluded that Landon was either piecing together a story out of unpromising material which would leave considerable gaps to be filled or, which was more likely, evolving one out of his vivid imagination. In either case he was content to leave the issue to be ascertained in the privacy of his quarters.