ove, had none of the responsibilities of love, and he could
afford to loaf through the land of nothing-to-do. He, Martin, had
something to work for, and go to work he would. He would start out early
next morning to hunt a job. And he would let Ruth know, too, that he had
mended his ways and was willing to go into her father's office.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent, the market
price for art. The disappointment of it, the lie of it, the infamy of
it, were uppermost in his thoughts; and under his closed eyelids, in
fiery figures, burned the "$3.85" he owed the grocer. He shivered, and
was aware of an aching in his bones. The small of his back ached
especially. His head ached, the top of it ached, the back of it ached,
the brains inside of it ached and seemed to be swelling, while the ache
over his brows was intolerable. And beneath the brows, planted under his
lids, was the merciless "$3.85." He opened his eyes to escape it, but
the white light of the room seemed to sear the balls and forced him to
close his eyes, when the "$3.85" confronted him again.

Five dollars for five thousand words, ten words for a cent--that
particular thought took up its residence in his brain, and he could no
more escape it than he could the "$3.85" under his eyelids. A change
seemed to come over the latter, and he watched curiously, till "$2.00"
burned in its stead. Ah, he thought, that was the baker. The next sum
that appeared was "$2.50." It puzzled him, and he pondered it as if life
and death hung on the solution. He owed somebody two dollars and a half,
that was certain, but who was it? To find it was the task set him by an
imperious and malignant universe, and he wandered through the endless
corridors of his mind, opening all manner of lumber rooms and chambers
stored with odds and ends of memories and knowledge as he vainly sought
the answer. After several centuries it came to him, easily, without
effort, that it was Maria. With a great relief he turned his soul to the
screen of torment under his lids. He had solved the problem; now he
could rest. But no, the "$2.50" faded away, and in its place burned
"$8.00." Who was that? He must go the dreary round of his mind again
and find out.

How long he was gone on this quest he did not know, but after what seemed
an enormous lapse of time, he was called back to himself by a knock at
the door, and by Maria's asking if he was sick. He replied in