times when Leigh had suggested it, but at last, in desperation, he threw himself on Leigh's protection and resource.
It was a Saturday afternoon in the New Year. The January thaw had come and gone. The weather had become cold again, but there was no snow. It was an iron day. An iron sky and iron earth, a wind, the metallic iciness of which might well take the heart out of even a strong man. Arthur Leigh was not strong, and, as he and Finch strode northward along the road toward Jalna, it took all his courage to keep up the pace without complaint. He cast a sidelong glance at Finch. He saw his tall figure bent against the blast, the end of his long nose getting pink, a drop of moisture like a tear trickling from his eye. He had a dogged look as though he had faced such a wind along this road many a time.
Leigh gasped out, the words whistling between his teeth: "I say, Finch, do you do this walk every day—in all kinds of weather? Deep snow—and sleet—and all that?"
"Of course I do. Are you cold, Arthur?"
"I've been warmer. Don't they ever send a car for you?"
"Good Lord, no. Sometimes I get a lift. We'll soon be there now."
They strode on.
A little later Leigh exclaimed petulantly: "I was never made for such a climate. As soon as I get through college, I'll cut these winters out."
"Atlantic City, eh?"
"Oh, my dear, no! The south of France. The Lido. You and I'll go together, Finch."
Finch grinned at him lovingly. He did not see where he would ever get money for travelling, but the thought of being in Europe with Arthur was beautiful. Leigh never called him "my dear," or "darling Finch" without his heart beating a little more quickly as in glad response. He had never been able to call his friend by any term of endearment, though in secret he had used
