Sometimes, when he was alone in his room, he would think of the situation and try to puzzle it out.  It seemed as if he and the Presence were there on a visit which neither of them enjoyed very much, and which they were enduring for the sake of his father, who seemed gratified to have his eldest son at home once more.  But all the time Courtland was chafing at the delay.  He felt there was something he ought to be about.  There wasn’t anything here.  Not even the young brothers presented a very hopeful field, or perhaps he didn’t know how to go about it.  He tried telling them stories one day when he wheedled them off in the car with him, and they listened eagerly when he told them of the fire in the theater, Stephen Marshall’s wonderful part in the rescue of many, and his death.  But when he went on and tried to tell them in boy language of his own experience he could see them look strangely, critically at him, and finally the oldest one said:  “Aw rats!  What kinda rot are you giving us, Paul?  You were nutty then, o’ course!” and he saw that, young as they were, their eyes were holden like the rest.

In the second week Courtland made his decision.  He would go back to the university and pack up.  Gila would be away from the city by that time; there would be no chance of meeting her and having his wound opened afresh.  The fellows would be all gone and he could do about as he pleased.

It was the second day after he went back that he met Pat on the street, and it was from Pat that he learned that Tennelly and Bill Ward had gone down to the shore to a house party given by “that fluffy-ruffles cousin of Bill’s.”

Pat drew his own conclusions from the white look on Courtland’s face when he told him.  He would heartily have enjoyed throttling the girl if he had had a chance just then, when he saw the look of suffering in Courtland’s eyes.

Pat clung to Courtland all that week, helped him pack, and dogged his steps.  Except when he visited the little sacred room at the end of the hall in the dormitory, Courtland was never sure of freedom from him.  He was always on hand to propose a hike or a trip to the movies when he saw Courtland was tired.  Courtland was grateful, and there was something so loyal about him that he couldn’t give him the slip.  So when he went down after Burns and whirled him away in his big gray car to the seashore Friday morning to stay until Saturday evening, Pat went along.

CHAPTER XXVII

They certainly were a queer trio, the little Scotch preacher, the big Irish athlete, and the cultured aristocrat!  Yet they managed to have a mighty good time of it those two days at the shore, and came back the warmest of friends.  Pat proved his devotion to Burns by attending church the next day with Courtland, and listening attentively to every word that was said.  It is true he did it much in the same way the fellows used to share one another’s stunts in college,