I knew what he was going to say. I could tell by his
manner. I dreaded it, and yet I loved him for it.
"Why say anything, my dear boy?" I asked. "You want to be friends with
me again, and God knows I want to be friends again with you. Why talk?"
"I've got to get if off my chest," said he, in his so familiar
vernacular. "I want to tell you that I've been every end of a silly ass
and I want you to forgive me."
I vow I have never felt so miserably guilty towards any human being as
I did at that moment. I have never felt such a smug-faced hypocrite.
It was a humiliating position. I had inflicted on him a most grievous
wrong, and here he was pleading for forgiveness. I could not pronounce
the words of pardon. He misinterpreted my silence.
"I know I've behaved rottenly to you since you've been back, but the
first step's always so difficult. You mustn't bear a grudge against me."
"My dear boy!" I cried, my hand on his shoulder, touched to the heart
by his simple generosity, "don't let us talk of grudges and forgiveness.
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