little table among his primary papers and examination papers. He indicated to Captain Renfrew the single chair in the room.
But the old gentleman stood motionless in the mean room, with its head-line streaked walls. Sounds of the heavy lifting of Peter’s mother came through the thin door and partition with painful clearness. Peter opened his own small window, for the air in his room was foul.
Captain Renfrew stood in silence, with a remote sarcasm in his wrinkled eyes. What was in his heart, why he had subjected himself to the noisomeness of failing flesh, Peter had not the faintest idea. Once, out of studently habit, he glanced at Peter’s philosophic books, but apparently he read the titles without really observing them. Once he looked at Peter.
“Peter,” he said colorlessly, “I hope you’ll be careful of Caroline’s feelings if she ever gets up again. She has been very faithful to you, Peter.”
Peter’s eyes dampened. A great desire mounted in him to explain himself to this strange old gentleman, to show him how inevitable had been the breach. For some reason a veritable passion to reveal his heart to this his sole benefactor surged through the youth.
“Mr. Renfrew,” he stammered, “Mr. Renfrew—I—I—” His throat abruptly ached and choked. He felt his face distort in a spasm of uncontrollable grief. He turned quickly from this strange old man with a
