And then, gradually, came a healing. There had been no other sequel. The Professor had returned. He had not dared speculate upon the meeting him and facing him. But when, one day, the great man stopped him on the Campus, all of the torture he had imagined for this moment seemed strangely fanciful. He talked with him, calmly, and mentioned the dinner with his wife, and smiled at an apt remark and responded with another. Beyond, behind, he glimpsed in his brain another Quincy, spotted with red, writhing in his quandary. But this was upon the plane of his imagined tortures, a remote plane. He went away, wondering if he was a hypocrite, questioning which Quincy was the false one, hating his adaptability with life. For in his thoughts, a situation half so hard would have made his head whirl, and his heart bleed and his breath smother. Yet here he was, coolly at his lessons, chatting, digesting normally! He grew to be a wonder to himself greater than Julia was, or the Professor. And all of the remainder of the year, there was no sequel. His calm was the calm of a great battle. But since Quincy had accepted the traditional idea of conflict, he did not know how deeply he was fighting. Yet he who has fought knows well that there is no calm so vast and so profound as the calm of conflict. Above it, the clouds may writhe and the air clash with thunder. Before it, the soul may quake and after it, the heart may bleed. But in the conflict, there is no energy at leisure to make a storm within. All of man’s power to stir has been projected outward. Within, there can be only peace. And then, little by little, as the struggle flags, the mind begins to move--the mind which is the herald of the soul. And as the inner forces put about and return homeward, they bring the turmoil and the stirring with them. And the mind catches these. And the mind speaks of bleeding or of winning, of dying or of living. And this is the consciousness of conflict--when the conflict flags. So came it, that at that time which his jejune imaginings had pictured as unbearably upsetting, Quincy moved quietly about. And where he had dreamed of a decision in an open lists, behold! in the glamor, there was only the announcement of what had been done in secret from himself.