Mr. Randolph held the younger man’s hand in a long clasp as he said, “Good-by, my boy, and—­luck to you!”

* * * * *

As Derby left the office, the sudden prospect of seeing Nina so soon set his thoughts in a turmoil unusual to the condition in which he managed pretty steadily to keep them.  Of all the things that this young man had accomplished, none had been more difficult than preserving the attitude toward Nina that he had after careful deliberation determined upon.  To his chagrin the task became more, instead of less, difficult, as time went on.  In the long ago, it had been she who adored and he who accepted the adoration—­in the way common with the big boy and the little girl.  He had taught her to swim, and to ride, and to shoot.  And—­though he did not realize it—­from his own precepts she had acquired a directness of outlook and a sense of truth that embodied justice as well as candor, and that was in quality much more like that of a boy than a girl.

Then came the time when he was no longer a boy.  He went out West, and work made him serious, and absence made him realize that he loved her as that rare type of man loves who loves but one woman in his life.  But she, never dreaming of any change in his feelings, went on thinking of him always as of a brother.  Often, when he returned from a long absence, and she ran to meet him with both hands outstretched, he looked for some sign from her—­some fleeting gleam such as he had caught in other women’s eyes.  But always Nina’s glance had met his own affectionately, but squarely and tranquilly.  His coming, or his going, brought smiles or gravity to her lips, but her eyes showed no sudden veiling of feeling, no new consciousness of meaning unexpressed.  When she laughed, they danced as though the sunlight were caught under their hazel surface.  When she was serious, they were velvety soft.  To John hers was the sweetest, brightest, and assuredly the most expressive face in the world.  But he knew the distrust and coldness that would undoubtedly be his portion should he ever forget the role that up to the present he had played to perfection—­that of her brotherly, affectionate friend.  Her very expression, “Dear old John”—­generally she said “Jack”—­her entire lack of reserve or self-consciousness in his presence, put him where he belonged.

And the other women—­undoubtedly there were lots of the every-day kind, waiting all along the stream, just as there always are when a man is young and fairly good to look upon.  And there were the different, and far more dangerous, “other women,” who wait at the whirlpools for a man who has that elusive but distinctly felt magnetism which some personalities exert, seemingly with indifference, and quite apart from any effort or intent.  But John Derby lashed his heart to the mast of hard work and resolutely turned his eyes and ears from the sirens.  And so he saw the years stretching on, always crammed with tasks that he was to accomplish, but without hope of ever winning the girl he loved, because of the barrier of her money.