ghost of a chance. But before she went to Paris, I told her how I felt. . . . And, well . . . I'm out of it."
"I shall never be out of it," Crispin said, "till some other fellow wins."
"I know when I'm beaten. You don't. Perhaps that's why you'll fight through. And—and if I can't have her, Harlowe—I want you to get her. Not Gresham. I know him and he'd kill her—dreams."
He drew a deep breath. "I want Hildegarde to be happy. I'm not sure that I am anything but a dawdler and a drone, but I have at least this virtue that I can see all that she is. And Bobby can't. . . ."
Crispin said huskily, "You're a good sport, Merry—"
"Not very. But I think I play fair. . . . And she told me once that when she thought of her future—you were in it, Harlowe. . . ."
Crispin found the other's hand and grasped it. "I wouldn't tell you, perhaps," Merry said, "if it hadn't been for Bobby. He mustn't have her. . . ."
It was late when the two men went to bed. They had talked long and intimately; had learned much of each other, and that knowledge had brought them close together. They found under the Blue Window, the beginning of a friendship which was to last throughout the years.
It was just as they parted before Crispin's door that Merry remarked; "Louis' letter this morning worried me. If he marries Ethel—" He caught himself up. . . .
"You, too?" Crispin said, "is it as certain as that?"
