"Is this your answer, Mr. Heron?" said Dino. "Will you sacrifice Brian's happiness--I say nothing of her's, for you understand her best--for your own?" "Yes, I will," Percival declared, roundly. "No man is called upon to give up his life for another without good reason. Your friend is nothing to me. I'll get what I can out of the world for myself. It is little enough, but I cannot be expected to surrender it for some ridiculous notion of unselfishness. I never professed to be unselfish in my life. Mr. Stretton is a man to whom I owe a grudge. I acknowledge it." Dino sighed heavily. The shade of disappointment upon his face was so deep that Heron felt some pity for him--all the more because he believed that the monk was destined to deeper disappointment still. He turned to him with almost a friendly look. "You can't expect extraordinary motives from an ordinary man like me," he said. "I must say in all fairness that you have made a generous proposal. If I spoke too violently and hastily, I hope you will overlook it. I was rather beside myself with rage--though not with the sort of regret which Mr. Brett kindly attributes to me." "I understood that," said Dino. By a sudden impulse Percival held out his hand. It was a strong testimony to Dino's earnestness and simplicity of character that the two parted friends after such a stormy interview. As they went out of the office together Percival said, abruptly:-- "Where are you staying?" Dino named the place. "With the man you call Brian Luttrell?" "With Brian Luttrell." "What is the next thing you mean to do?" "I must tell Brian that I have betrayed his secret." "Oh, he won't be very angry with you for that!" laughed Percival. Dino shook his head. He was not so sure. As soon as they had separated, Percival went off at a swinging pace for a long walk. It was his usual way of getting rid of annoyance or excitement; and he was vexed to find that he could not easily shake off the effects that his conversation with Dino Vasari had produced upon his mind. The unselfishness, the devotion, of this man--younger than himself, with a brilliant future before him if only he chose to take advantage of it--appealed powerfully to his imagination. He tried to laugh at it: he called Dino hard names--"Quixotic fool," "dreamer," and "enthusiast"--but he could not forget that an ideal of conduct had been presented to his eyes, which was far higher than any which he should have thought possible for himself, and by a man upon whose profession of faith and calling he looked with profound contempt.