aster. Myrtle's
zest seemed fed from eternal springs. They danced a third time, or
rather Myrtle did, with each clamouring swain, while the music bleated
and whined away in expiring ecstasies and Joe leaned back against the
window sill and gazed hollow-eyed at the ceiling or answered the
fatuous banalities of some of the less fortunate ladies who were not
dancing at the moment for various reasons. And as they went home that
night, after twelve, they talked of the vast still places of the
world, "where Nature leans a brooding ear" and "where one can be
reposed and strong and silent and happy" and "just drink up the
atmosphere in great gusty draughts, and steep oneself in calm. None of
this terrible grind from day to day."

Saturday, Myrtle went up-state. Saturday was hot and long and
interminable. Sunday she motored, likewise up-state. It did not make
the city streets the cooler, thinking of her. Sunday night produced a
rain and a rising wind and a repetition of that chill, aching
weariness for Joe when he dragged himself to bed. Just as relaxation
slipped down between the covers upon his weary body the future came
and stood at the foot of his bed and stared at him like a flat, empty
sheet of yellow foolscap, without a mark on it, and away it stretched
endless. It was a silly image; it stared so vacantly. But it roused
him with a start and he tossed about restlessly on his bed and threw
back the covers that had become oppressive and let the breeze from the
window, a water-soaked breeze, blow in upon his bare chest. How long
would he be selling motor cars? He shelved that question. How much
would he have to make this month still, to pay all his bills? He
shelved this one, too. What was the matter with him, that he felt so
played out? Suddenly he shivered and was chilled to the marrow, and he
pulled the sheet up under his chin and went to sleep in the absorbed
contemplation of each minute bodily misery.

Monday noon found them lunching together in the tea room. Joe spoke
very distantly and formally to Mary Louise when once she came in,
looked around at the tables, and then disappeared in the mysterious
regions behind. Tuesday night they went on a moonlight picnic on a
large river steamer and got back at half-past one. There had been a
blissful hour of drifting black shadows, of gleaming ripples, and the
heavy sonorous exhaust of benign boilers, spent on the topmost step of
the pilot-house stairs, with a moon that dipped