there by the curtainless window, his head on his closed hand, looking
out into the sunny street.

"Anyway," said Lansing, "you've nothing to worry over."

"No, nothing," assented Selwyn listlessly.

After a silence Lansing added: "But you do a lot of worrying all the
same, Phil."

Selwyn flushed up and denied it.

"Yes, you do! I don't believe you realise how much of the time you are
out of spirits."

"Does it impress you that way?" asked Selwyn, mortified; "because I'm
really all right."

"Of course you are, Phil; I know it, but you don't seem to realise it.
You're morbid, I'm afraid."

"You've been talking to my sister!"

"What of it? Besides, I knew there was something the matter--"

"You know what it is, too. And isn't it enough to subdue a man's spirits
occasionally?"

"No," said Lansing--"if you mean your--mistake--two years ago. That
isn't enough to spoil life for a man. I've wanted to tell you so for a