“I don’t see how.”

“Well, I don’t know how you managed it exactly.  But I could see when those fellows came upstairs just now that you stood better with them than you ever had done before.  It must have been because you showed the right spirit—­and I know by experience, Westby, that it’s awfully hard to show the right spirit when you’re down.”

There was silence for a few moments.

“I guess I’ve made it hard for you,” said Westby at last, in a low voice.  “You’re different from what I thought you were.”

Irving’s low laugh of exultation sprang from the heart.  “Maybe I am—­and maybe you were right about me, too.  A fellow changes.  A month ago, I was wondering what use there could ever be in my studying law—­trying to practise, mixing with men—­when I couldn’t hold my own with a handful of boys.  For some reason, I don’t feel that way any longer.—­Well, that’s about all I wanted to say to you, Westby.”  He stood up.  “Good-night.”

Westby rose and shook hands.  “Good-night, sir.”

He passed out and quietly closed the door.  Irving stood at the window, gazing beyond the shadowy trees to the dim silver line of the pond, touched now by the moonlight.  There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Irving called.

It was Westby again.

“Oh, Mr. Upton,” he said, “I meant to tell you—­I heard at Mr. Barclay’s how the Freshman game came out; I wish, if you would, you’d send your brother my congratulations.”

“Thank you, I will.”

“Good-night, sir.”

“Good-night.”

The door closed softly.  Irving turned again and pressed his forehead against the window-pane with a smile.  It was a smile not merely of satisfaction because he had won his way at last, though he was not indifferent to that; he was happy too because this night he felt he had come close to Westby.