ate from the chaotic imagery
that stacked his memory the bare shreds of truth. If the morning had
been cold and gray he could have grasped the reins of the past in an
instant, but it was one of those days that New York gets sometimes in
May, when the air on Fifth Avenue is a soft, light wine. How much or how
little Sloane remembered Amory did not care to know; he apparently had
none of the nervous tension that was gripping Amory and forcing his mind
back and forth like a shrieking saw.

Then Broadway broke upon them, and with the babel of noise and the
painted faces a sudden sickness rushed over Amory.

"For God's sake, let's go back! Let's get off of this--this place!"

Sloane looked at him in amazement.

"What do you mean?"

"This street, it's ghastly! Come on! let's get back to the Avenue!"

"Do you mean to say," said Sloane stolidly, "that 'cause you had some
sort of indigestion that made you act like a maniac last night, you're
never coming on Broadway again?"

Simultaneously Amory classed him with the crowd, and he seemed no longer
Sloane of the debonair humor and the happy personality, but only one of
the evil faces that whirled along the turbid stream.

"Man!" he shouted so loud that the people on the corner turned and
followed them with their eyes, "it's filthy, and if you can't see it,
you're filthy, too!"

"I can't help it," said Sloane doggedly. "What's the matter with you?
Old remorse getting you? You'd be in a fine state if you'd gone through
with our little party."

"I'm going, Fred," said Amory slowly. His knees were shaking under him,
and he knew that if he stayed another minute on this street he would
keel over where he stood. "I'll be at the Vanderbilt for lunch." And he
strode rapidly off and turned over to Fifth Avenue. Back at the hotel he
felt better, but as he walked into the barber-shop, intending to get a
head massage, the smell of the powders and tonics brought back Axia's
sidelong, suggestive smile, and he left hurriedly. In the doorway of his
room a sudden blackness flowed around him like a divided river.

When he came to himself he knew that several hours had passed. He
pitched onto the bed and rolled over on his face with a deadly fear that
he was going mad. He wanted people, people, some one sane and stupid and
good. He lay for he knew not how long without moving. He could feel
the little hot veins on his forehead standing out, and his terror had
hardened on him like plaster.