returned to New York happy in his memory of his intimate hour on
a crowded stand with Sylvia. Dalrymple had given him that, too. It
amazed him that so much beauty could spring from so ugly a source.

He heard that Dalrymple was back from Canada, then that he had wandered
away, pockets full, on another journey, pandering to his twisted
conception of pleasure. One day George took his notes from the
safe-deposit box and gave them to Lambert.

"Get them back to him," he said.

And Lambert must have understood that George would never let the
Planters' money redeem them.

"It's pretty decent, George."

"It's nothing of the kind. They make my hands feel dirty, and I've lots
of money, and I'm making more every day; yet I wonder if it's going to
be enough, even with Driggs' and Blodgett's and yours, old Argonne
democrat."

For he had spoken of his plans to Blodgett, and had been a little
surprised to learn how much thought Blodgett had given the puzzle
himself, although most of his searching had been for makeshifts, for
anything to tide over immediate emergencies.

"I don't know," Blodgett roared, "whether this cleaning out the sore and
getting to the bottom of it will work or not; but I'm inclined to look
to the future with you for a permanent cure. Anyway, I'd help you
finance a scheme to make the ocean dry, because you usually get what
you're after. So we'll send Wandel and Allen and some more as a little
leaven to Albany and to that quilting party in Washington. I don't envy
them, though."

George realized that his content could be traced to this new interest,
as that went back to Sylvia. He had at last consciously set out to
explore the road of service. For the first time in his life, with his
eyes open, he was working for others, yet he never got rid of the sense
of a great personal need unfulfilled; always in his heart vibrated the
cry for Sylvia, but he knew he mustn't try to see her, for Betty would
have let him know, and Betty hadn't sent for him again.

After the holidays, at the urging of Wandel and Lambert, he showed
himself here and there, received at first curious glances, fancied some
people slightly self-conscious, then all at once found himself welcomed
on the old frank and pleasant basis. Yes, the talk had pretty well died,
and men and women were inclined to like Sylvia Planter and George Morton
better than they did Dalrymple.

He saw Dalrymple in the club one stormy January evening. He hadn't hea