straighten things out. It's too bad that... that now it's too late."

Anna sniffed at both of them contemptuously, with curling lips, as Roger clasped and unclasped his hands, helplessly. Frozen-faced, Ted stalked to the closet, hauled his empty suitcase to the middle of the floor, and prepared to pack. "Come downstairs with me, Roger," Anna demanded.

"In a minute, mother. Let me help Ted with his things."

"NOW!" Anna's eyes were two gleaming slits, her voice imperious.

"In a minute, mother," Roger whispered huskily, holding his ground. His lips were white, his glance desperate, as the duel of wills proceeded silently. Ted, stuffing his luggage, kept his back to them, wondering who would turn out victor. Seconds passed. Then came Anna's angry steps, fading out the door and down the stairs, alone.

Ted dreaded to look at his friend. Was Roger wounded? . . . offended? . . . angry? He concentrated furiously upon his packing, and tried not to think.

Finally out of a corner of his eye, he glimpsed Roger standing at a window. with his back toward the room, arms up and outstretched, hands gripping the window-frames. Outwardly his silhouette was composed, statuesque, magnificent against the pale morning sky; but inwardly a profound metamorphosis was transforming him. Loose fragments, made of the stuff of dreams, of hopes, of loves stirred urgently within his heart and before his mind, demanding to be given an object, a common center. The image of Ted was among them too, at first disconnected and somewhat dim. But as Roger pondered, the confusion cleared away. The strong, undirected urges of his manhood his friendship with Ted—the image of Ted-all of these things slowly crystallized into one as he stood looking out into the sky. Now he knew... he understood himself, and exulted in his heart. He had never heard of those who would take such a love, and turn it into a shameful, creeping thing. At last he turned to Ted quickly, with a radiant look.

Across the room, Ted sensed the look, and rose, and swung around. His lips moved, his eyes became wet as he saw Roger's expression, as the invisible current of feeling surged between them. Neither moved from his place, yet the two seemed to strain perceptibly toward one another. Hesitantly, almost shyly, Roger took a couple of steps forward. Ted stretched out his hands. But Roger stopped, and for a moment seemed to be looking at some secret thought; then he shook his head. Ted's hands fell back at his sides.

"There's something I want you to take with you. Ted. Just a minute. I'll be right back." Roger hurried from the room and down to the first floor, and then Ted heard him going into the basement, where he kept a small workshop, with a lathe and other woodworking tools. In a moment he was racing back upstairs and into the room, holding an irregular object.

"I was going to have this ready to give you on your birthday, Ted. It's a tierack, but it's not quite done. I haven't had a chance to finish the wood, but but take it, Ted. I don't know when I'll... when we'll be seeing each other again." He placed it in Ted's hands, looking slightly aside, as if unsure of meeting Ted's eyes at such close range. Ted examined the gift and made several ineffective efforts to speak.

Finally... "Thanks, Rodge, boy . . ." His voice was roughly tender. He cleared his throat. "Say, Roger..." he surveyed one corner of the room, where stood an easel, surrounded by a clutter of sketches, half-finished oils, a few water-colors. He supported himself on a small inheritance from his dead father, and was aiming toward a career in art. "I'll take the easel, but would you pack my

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