Tetlow glanced at his friend; then the tears came into his eyes.  “You’re a hell of a friend!” he ejaculated.  “And I thought you’d sympathize because you were in love.”

“I do sympathize, Billy,” Norman replied with an abrupt change to shamefaced apology.  “I sympathize more than you know.  I feel like a dog, doing this.  But it can’t result in any harm, and I want you to get a little fresh air in that hot brain of yours before you commit yourself.  Be reasonable, old man.  Suppose you rushed ahead and proposed—­and she accepted—­and then, after a few days, you came to.  What about her?  You must act on the level, Tetlow.  Do the fair thing by yourself and by her.”

Norman had often had occasion to feel proud of the ingenuity and resourcefulness of his brain.  He had never been quite so proud as he was when he finished that speech.  It pacified Tetlow; it lightened his own sense of guilt; it gave him a respite.

Tetlow rewarded Norman with the look that in New York is the equivalent of the handclasp friend seeks from friend in times of stress.  “You’re right, Fred. I’m much obliged to you.  I haven’t been considering her side of it enough.  A man ought always to think of that.  The women—­poor things—­have a hard enough time to get on, at best.”

Norman’s smile was characteristically cynical.  Sentimentality amused him.  “I doubt if there are more female wrecks than male wrecks scattered about the earth,” rejoined he.  “And I suspect the fact isn’t due to the gentleness of man with woman, either.  Don’t fret for the ladies, Tetlow.  They know how to take care of themselves.  They know how to milk with a sure and a steady hand.  You may find it out by depressing experience some day.”

Tetlow saw the aim.  His obstinate, wretched expression came back.  “I don’t care.  I’ve got——­”

“You went over that ground,” interrupted Norman impatiently.  “You’d better be catching the train.”

As Tetlow withdrew, he rang for an office boy and sent him to summon Miss Hallowell.

Norman had been reasoning with himself—­with the aid of the self that was both better and more worldly wise.  He felt that his wrestlings had not been wholly futile.  He believed he had got the strength to face the girl with a respectful mind, with a mind resolute in duty—­if not love—­toward Josephine Burroughs.  “I love Josephine,” he said to himself.  “My feeling for this girl is some sort of physical attraction.  I certainly shall be able to control it enough to keep it within myself.  And soon it will die out.  No doubt I’ve felt much the same thing as strongly before.  But it didn’t take hold because I was never bound before—­never had the sense of the necessity for restraint.  That sense is always highly dangerous for my sort of man.”

This sounded well.  He eyed the entering girl coldly, said in a voice that struck him as excellent indifference, “Bring your machine in here, Miss Hallowell, and recopy these papers.  I’ve made some changes.  If you spoil any sheets, don’t throw them away, but return everything to me.”