“Oh, damn!” said Boots, disgusted; “the same old conscience in the same old mule!  Who likes squalidity?  I don’t.  You don’t!  What if Fate has hit you a nasty swipe!  Suppose Fortune has landed you a few in the slats!  It’s only temporary and you know it.  All business in the world is conducted on borrowed capital.  It’s your business to live in decent quarters, and I’m here to lend you the means of conducting that business.  Oh, come on, Phil, for Heaven’s sake!  If there were really any reason—­any logical reason for this genius-in-the-garret business, I’d not say a word.  But there isn’t; you’re going to make money—­”

“Oh, yes, I’ve got to,” said Selwyn simply.

“Well, then!  In the meanwhile—­”

“No.  Listen, Boots; I couldn’t be free in your house.  I—­they—­there are telegrams—­unexpected ones—­at all hours.”

“What of it?”

“You don’t understand.”

“Wait a bit!  How do you know I don’t?  Do the telegrams come from Sandy Hook?”

“No.”

Boots looked him calmly in the eye.  “Then I do understand, old man.  Come on out of this, in Heaven’s name!  Come, now!  Get your dressing-gown off and your coat on!  Don’t you think I understand?  I tell you I do!  Yes, the whole blessed, illogical, chivalrous business. . . .  Never mind how I know—­for I won’t tell you!  Oh, I’m not trying to interfere with you; I know enough to shun buzz-saws.  All I want is for you to come and take that big back room and help a fellow live in a lonely house—­help a man to make it cheerful.  I can’t stand it alone any longer; and it will be four years before Drina is eighteen.”

“Drina!” repeated Selwyn blankly—­then he laughed.  It was genuine laughter, too; and Boots grinned and puffed at his pipe, and recrossed his legs, watching Selwyn out of eyes brightening with expectancy.

“Then it’s settled,” he said.

“What?  Your ultimate career with Drina?”

“Oh, yes; that also.  But I referred to your coming to live with me.”

“Boots—­”

“Oh, fizz!  Come on.  I don’t like the way you act, Phil.”

Selwyn said slowly:  “Do you make it a personal matter—­”

“Yes, I do; dam’f I don’t!  You’ll be perfectly free there.  I don’t care what you do or where you go or what hours you keep.  You can run up and down Broadway all night, if you want to, or you can stop at home and play with the cats.  I’ve three fine ones”—­he made a cup of his hands and breathed into them, for the room was horribly cold—­“three fine tabbies, and a good fire for ’em to blink at when they start purring.”

He looked kindly but anxiously at Selwyn, waiting for a word; and as none came he said: 

“Old fellow, you can’t fool me with your talk about needing nothing better because you’re out of town all the time.  You know what you and I used to talk about in the old days—­our longing for a home and an open fire and a brace of cats and bedroom slippers.  Now I’ve got ’em, and I make Ardois signals at you.  If your shelter-tent got afire or blew away, wouldn’t you crawl into mine?  And are you going to turn down an old tent-mate because his shack happens to be built of bricks?”