DUNN’S change of heart was not as sudden as it seemed. A boy often builds for himself a certain structure of false principle which it gratifies his vanity to consider his permanent philosophy of life. When faults in this structure develop, he shuts his eyes to them or patches them with flattering sophistries; and even when the foundations are actually crumbling away, he affects a firm confidence because he is too weak to face the task of rebuilding. In the end some bitter experience may undermine the last support and bring down the edifice with a crash. So it was with Dunn. He had been aware for some time that he was on the wrong track, but he could not bring himself to acknowledge the fact. The information that even when he felt most bitter against Hardie, Hardie had secretly done him a good turn, stirred his sense of shame and disproved his assumption that all the boys had been down on him from the beginning. He recognized clearly enough now that he had been making a fool of himself, and that the only sensible course was to retrace his steps and start anew in a different path. He went that evening to Hardie’s room, announced that he was going to turn over a new leaf, and asked if he might drop in occasionally for a lift over a hard place. He said nothing of the dancing-school invitation; that lay now too far away in the past. Hardie met him so cordially that Dunn was moved to open his heart still further. “What is the matter with me, anyway?” he demanded bluntly. “I wish you’d give me the bottom facts, right out straight.” Hardie smiled. “You don’t do any work.” “Oh, I know all about that. I’m a loafer and a goat besides. I don’t mean about studies. Why don’t the fellows like me?” “Oh, I don’t know,” answered Hardie, warily. “Don’t they like you?” “No, they don’t. You know they don’t. Now, what is it?” Roger looked shyly across the table at the questioner; he didn’t know what to answer. “Spit it out!” insisted Dunn. “Just give me the truth. I can stand it.” “Well,” said Roger, slowly, “for one thing, you talk too much.” Dunn stared. “I don’t think that’s such a crime. I’m nothing compared with Wilmot. His tongue’s going all the time.” “Oh, he’s different,” exclaimed Roger, hastily. “He talks a lot of trash, but he’s amusing, and the fellows like it. He never talks about himself.” “And my talk isn’t amusing and is always about myself.” “Not that exactly, but you’re always thinking about yourself. You don’t take much interest in anybody else.” “It isn’t easy to do it if they won’t let you,” said Dunn, with a gloomy smile. “What else?” “Your ideas are different from theirs. You think things are funny that they don’t. They don’t like your way of looking at things.” “In other words I’m all wrong,” growled Dunn, in disgust, as he rose to go. “I couldn’t please ’em, anyway, and I shan’t try it, but I’m going to stop talking and cut out smoking and get right down to work.” “For how long?” asked Roger, with a grin of incredulity.