longer
bothered him. He was seeking a new orientation, and until that was found
his life must stand still.

After several weeks, what he had been waiting for happened. He met Ruth
on the street. It was true, she was accompanied by her brother, Norman,
and it was true that they tried to ignore him and that Norman attempted
to wave him aside.

"If you interfere with my sister, I'll call an officer," Norman
threatened. "She does not wish to speak with you, and your insistence is
insult."

"If you persist, you'll have to call that officer, and then you'll get
your name in the papers," Martin answered grimly. "And now, get out of
my way and get the officer if you want to. I'm going to talk with Ruth."

"I want to have it from your own lips," he said to her.

She was pale and trembling, but she held up and looked inquiringly.

"The question I asked in my letter," he prompted.

Norman made an impatient movement, but Martin checked him with a swift
look.

She shook her head.

"Is all this of your own free will?" he demanded.

"It is." She spoke in a low, firm voice and with deliberation. "It is
of my own free will. You have disgraced me so that I am ashamed to meet
my friends. They are all talking about me, I know. That is all I can
tell you. You have made me very unhappy, and I never wish to see you
again."

"Friends! Gossip! Newspaper misreports! Surely such things are not
stronger than love! I can only believe that you never loved me."

A blush drove the pallor from her face.

"After what has passed?" she said faintly. "Martin, you do not know what
you are saying. I am not common."

"You see, she doesn't want to have anything to do with you," Norman
blurted out, starting on with her.

Martin stood aside and let them pass, fumbling unconsciously in his coat
pocket for the tobacco and brown papers that were not there.

It was a long walk to North Oakland, but it was not until he went up the
steps and entered his room that he knew he had walked it. He found
himself sitting on the edge of the bed and staring about him like an
awakened somnambulist. He noticed "Overdue" lying on the table and drew
up his chair and reached for his pen. There was in his nature a logical
compulsion toward completeness. Here was something undone. It had been
deferred against the completion of something else. Now that something
else had been finished, and he would apply himself to this task until it
was fi