st in the din. Besides, that publishing
firm did not own a magazine wherewith to make its claim less modest.

The newspapers calculated Martin's royalties. In some way the
magnificent offers certain magazines had made him leaked out, and Oakland
ministers called upon him in a friendly way, while professional begging
letters began to clutter his mail. But worse than all this were the
women. His photographs were published broadcast, and special writers
exploited his strong, bronzed face, his scars, his heavy shoulders, his
clear, quiet eyes, and the slight hollows in his cheeks like an
ascetic's. At this last he remembered his wild youth and smiled. Often,
among the women he met, he would see now one, now another, looking at
him, appraising him, selecting him. He laughed to himself. He
remembered Brissenden's warning and laughed again. The women would never
destroy him, that much was certain. He had gone past that stage.

Once, walking with Lizzie toward night school, she caught a glance
directed toward him by a well-gowned, handsome woman of the bourgeoisie.
The glance was a trifle too long, a shade too considerative. Lizzie knew
it for what it was, and her body tensed angrily. Martin noticed, noticed
the cause of it, told her how used he was becoming to it and that he did
not care anyway.

"You ought to care," she answered with blazing eyes. "You're sick.
That's what's the matter."

"Never healthier in my life. I weigh five pounds more than I ever did."

"It ain't your body. It's your head. Something's wrong with your think-
machine. Even I can see that, an' I ain't nobody."

He walked on beside her, reflecting.

"I'd give anything to see you get over it," she broke out impulsively.
"You ought to care when women look at you that way, a man like you. It's
not natural. It's all right enough for sissy-boys. But you ain't made
that way. So help me, I'd be willing an' glad if the right woman came
along an' made you care."

When he left Lizzie at night school, he returned to the Metropole.

Once in his rooms, he dropped into a Morris chair and sat staring
straight before him. He did not doze. Nor did he think. His mind was a
blank, save for the intervals when unsummoned memory pictures took form
and color and radiance just under his eyelids. He saw these pictures,
but he was scarcely conscious of them--no more so than if they had been
dreams. Yet he was not asleep. Once, he roused himself a