And that was another thing--dad. Dad had been right. He himself had been wrong. But that did not mean that it was easy to own up that he had been wrong. Sometimes he hardly knew which cut the deeper: that he had been proved wrong, thus losing his happiness, or that his father had been proved right, thus placing him in a position to hear the hated "I told you so." That Helen could never make him happy Burke was convinced now. Never had he realized this so fully as since seeing her at his father's table that Sunday. Never had her "ways" so irritated him. Never had he so poignantly realized the significance of what he had lost--and won. Never had he been so ashamed--or so ashamed because he was ashamed--as on that day. Never, he vowed, would he be placed in the same position again. As to Helen's side of the matter--Burke quite forgot that there was such a thing. When one is so very sorry for one's self, one forgets to be sorry for anybody else. And Burke was, indeed, very sorry for himself. Having never been in the habit of taking disagreeable medicine, he did not know how to take it now. Having been always accustomed to consider only himself, he considered only himself now. That Helen, too, might be disappointed and disillusioned never occurred to him. * * * * * It was perhaps a month later that another invitation to dinner came from John Denby. This time Burke did not stutter out a joyous, incoherent acceptance. He declined so promptly and emphatically that he quite forgot his manners, for the moment, and had to attach to the end of his refusal a hurried and ineffectual "Er--thank you; you are very kind, I'm sure!" He looked up then and met his father's eyes. But instantly his gaze dropped. "Er--ah--Helen is not well at all, dad," he still further added, nervously. "Of course I'll speak to her. But I don't think we can come." There was a moment's pause. Then, very gravely, John Denby said: "Oh, I am sorry, son." Burke, with a sudden tightening of his throat, turned and walked away. "He didn't laugh, he didn't sneer, he didn't look _anyhow_, only just plain sorry," choked the young man to himself. "And he had such a magnificent chance to do--all of them. But he just--understood." Burke "spoke to Helen" that night. "Father asked us to dinner next Sunday; but--I said I didn't think we could go. I told him you weren't feeling well. I didn't think you'd want to go; and--I didn't want to go myself." Helen frowned and pouted. "Well, I've got my opinion of folks who refuse an invitation without even asking 'em if they want to go," she bridled. "Not that I mind much, in this case, though,--if it's just a dinner. I thought once, maybe he meant something--that he was giving in, you know. But I haven't seen any signs of _that_. And as for just going to dinner--I can't say I am 'specially anxious for that--mean as I feel now." "No, I thought not," said Burke.