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called me about three and stayed till five. She’s so utterly stupid.”

      Maury was silent.

      Anthony had known her a month. He considered her amusing and rather liked the chaste and fairylike kisses she had given him on the third night of their acquaintance, when they had driven in a taxi through the Park. She had a shadowy aunt and uncle who shared with her an apartment. She familiar and intimate and restful.

      “She gets her hair over her eyes some way and then blow it out,” he informed Maury; “and she likes to say ‘You cra-a-azy!’ when some one makes a remark that she does not understand. It fascinates me.”

      Maury spoke.

      “Remarkable that a person can comprehend so little and yet live in such a complex civilization.”

      “Our Richard could write about her.”

      “Anthony, surely you don’t think she’s worth writing about.”

      “As much as anybody,” he answered, yawning. “You know I was thinking today that I have a great confidence in Dick. If he sticks to people and not to ideas, I believe he’ll be a big man.”

      Anthony raised himself.

      “He tries to go to life. So does every author except the very worst. The incident or character may be from life, but the writer usually interprets it in terms of the last book he read. For instance, suppose he meets a captain. He already knows how to set this sea captain on paper…Whose tea was it?”

      “People named Abercrombie[15].”

      “Why did you stay late? Did you meet a girl?”

      “Yes.”

      “Did you really?” Anthony’s voice lifted in surprise.

      “Yes. She seemed the youngest person there.”

      “Not too young to make you miss a train.”

      “Young enough. Beautiful child.”

      Anthony chuckled.

      “Oh, Maury, what do you mean by beautiful?”

      Maury gazed helplessly into space.

      “Well, I can’t describe her exactly – except to say that she was beautiful. She was tremendously alive.”

      “What!”

      “Mostly we talked about legs.”

      “My God! Whose legs?”

      “Hers. She talked a lot about hers.”

      “What is she – a dancer?”

      “No, she was a cousin of Dick’s.”

      Anthony sat upright suddenly

      “Her name is Gloria Gilbert!” he cried.

      “Yes. Isn’t she remarkable?”

      “I don’t know – but her father…”

      “Well,” interrupted Maury, “her family may be as sad as professional mourners but I’m think that she’s a quite authentic and original character.”

      “Go on, go on!” urged Anthony. “Soon as[16] Dick told me she didn’t have a brain in her head I knew she must be pretty good.”

      “Did he say that?”

      “Yes,” said Anthony with snorting laugh.

      “Well, this girl talked about legs. She talked about skin too – her own skin. Always her own. And her tan”

      “You sat enraptured by her voice?”

      “No, by tan! I began thinking about tan. I began to think what color I turned about two years ago.”

      Anthony was shaken with laughter.

      “Oh, Maury!”

      Maury sighed; rising he walked to the window and raised the shade.

      “Snowing hard.”

      Anthony, still laughing quietly to himself, made no answer.

      “Another winter.” Maury’s voice from the window was almost a whisper. “We’re growing old, Anthony. I’m twenty-seven, by God! Three years to thirty, and then I’m a middle-aged man.”

      Anthony was silent for a moment.

      “You are old, Maury,” he agreed at length. “The first sign – you have spent the afternoon talking about tan and a lady’s legs.”

      “Idiot!” cried Maury, “that from you! Here I sit, young Anthony, as I’ll sit for years and watch such souls as you and Dick and Gloria Gilbert go past me, dancing and singing and loving and hating one another. And I shall sit and the snow will come – and another winter and I shall be thirty and you and Dick and Gloria will eternally move and dance by me and sing.”

      Maury left the window, stirred the blaze with a poker, and dropped a log upon the andirons. Then he sat back in his chair.

      “After all, Anthony, it’s you who are very romantic and young. And it’s me who tries again and again to move – and I’m always me. Nothing stirs me.”

      Turbulence

      Anthony turned over sleepily in his bed. Bounds was close to the bed, his dark-brown eyes fixed imperturbably upon his master.

      Anthony blinked.

      “Bounds.”

      “Yes, sir?”

      “Can you come around about four and serve some tea and sandwiches or something?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “Some sandwiches,” Anthony repeated helplessly, “oh, some cheese sandwiches and chicken and olive, I guess.”

      He shut his eyes wearily, let his head roll to rest inertly, and quickly relaxed. Richard Caramel had called on him[17] at midnight; they had drunk four bottles of beer.

      Suddenly he was awake, saying: “What?”

      “For how many, sir?” It was still Bounds, standing patient and motionless.

      “How many what?”

      “I think, sir, I’d better know how many are coming. I’ll have to plan for the sandwiches, sir.”

      “Two,” muttered Anthony huskily; “lady and a gentleman.”

      Bounds said, “Thank you, sir,” and moved away.

      After a long time Anthony arose. With a last yawn he went into the bathroom. Then he lit a cigarette and glanced through several letters and the morning Tribune.

      An hour later, shaven and dressed, he was sitting at his desk looking at a small piece of paper he had taken out of his wallet. “Dick and Gloria Gilbert for tea.”

      These words brought him obvious satisfaction. In justification of his manner of living there was first, of course, The Meaninglessness of Life. From a world fraught with the stupidity of many Geraldines he was thankfully delivered.

      But he found in himself a growing horror and loneliness. The idea of eating alone frightened him; in preference he dined often with men he detested. Travel, which had once charmed him, seemed unendurable.

      And yet he wanted something, something. After cocktails and luncheon at the University Club Anthony felt better. He was Anthony Patch, brilliant, magnetic, the heir of many years and many men. With his grandfather’s money he might build his own pedestal. The clarity of his mind, its sophistication, its versatile intelligence. He tried to imagine himself in Congress. Little men with copy-book ambitions, the lustreless and unromantic heaven of a government.

      Back in his apartment the grayness returned. His thoughts were bitter. Anthony Patch with no achievement, without courage, without strength. Oh, he was a pretentious fool,

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