flurry of combat far behind, and its
dumfounded passengers never dreamed that the quiet young man and the
pretty working-girl sitting in the corner on the outside seat had been
the cause of the row.

Martin had enjoyed the fight, with a recrudescence of the old fighting
thrills. But they quickly died away, and he was oppressed by a great
sadness. He felt very old--centuries older than those careless, care-
free young companions of his others days. He had travelled far, too far
to go back. Their mode of life, which had once been his, was now
distasteful to him. He was disappointed in it all. He had developed
into an alien. As the steam beer had tasted raw, so their companionship
seemed raw to him. He was too far removed. Too many thousands of opened
books yawned between them and him. He had exiled himself. He had
travelled in the vast realm of intellect until he could no longer return
home. On the other hand, he was human, and his gregarious need for
companionship remained unsatisfied. He had found no new home. As the
gang could not understand him, as his own family could not understand
him, as the bourgeoisie could not understand him, so this girl beside
him, whom he honored high, could not understand him nor the honor he paid
her. His sadness was not untouched with bitterness as he thought it
over.

"Make it up with him," he advised Lizzie, at parting, as they stood in
front of the workingman's shack in which she lived, near Sixth and
Market. He referred to the young fellow whose place he had usurped that
day.

"I can't--now," she said.

"Oh, go on," he said jovially. "All you have to do is whistle and he'll
come running."

"I didn't mean that," she said simply.

And he knew what she had meant.

She leaned toward him as he was about to say good night. But she leaned
not imperatively, not seductively, but wistfully and humbly. He was
touched to the heart. His large tolerance rose up in him. He put his
arms around her, and kissed her, and knew that upon his own lips rested
as true a kiss as man ever received.

"My God!" she sobbed. "I could die for you. I could die for you."

She tore herself from him suddenly and ran up the steps. He felt a quick
moisture in his eyes.

"Martin Eden," he communed. "You're not a brute, and you're a damn poor
Nietzscheman. You'd marry her if you could and fill her quivering heart
full with happiness. But you can't, you can't. And it's a damn shame."