ties had shifted so strangely--his own as well as hers. Well, and
in what direction had, he changed? How did he compare--the man who sat
here now, with the man who had unhesitatingly jumped off the car to
follow a new adventure--the man who had turned up water-logged at
Frederica's dinner and made hay of her plan to marry him off to Hermione
Woodruff?

They had had a great old talk that night, Frederica and he, he
remembered. He remembered what he had talked about, and he smiled grimly
over the recollection--space and leisure; the defective intelligence
that trapped men into cluttering their lives with useless junk; so many
things to have and to do that they couldn't turn around without breaking
something. Had he been a fool then, or was he a fool now? Both,
perhaps. But how old Frederica must have grinned over the naivete of
him. Which of the two of him in her candid opinion would be the better
man?

He believed he could answer that question. Oh, he was succeeding all
right--increasing his practise, making money, getting cautious--prudent;
he didn't bolt the track any more. And the quality of his work was good,
he couldn't quarrel with that. Only, the old big free dreams that had
glorified it, were gone. He was in harness, drawing a cart; following a
bundle of hay.

He sprang impatiently to his feet, thrust back his chair so violently as
he did so that it tipped over with a crash. The one really footling,
futile, fool thing to do, was what he was doing now--lamenting his old
way of life and making no effort to recapture it! Let him either accept
the situation, make up his mind to it and stop complaining, or else
offer it some effective resistance--sweep the flummery out of his
life--clear decks for action.

Well, and that was the most asinine consideration of all. Because
of course he couldn't do one thing or the other. As long as
the man who wasn't Rose's husband remained alive in him, he'd
protest--struggle--clamor for his old freedom. And yet, as long as the
million tiny cords that bound hum, Gulliver-like, went back to Rose,
talk of breaking them was sophomoric foolishness. He'd better go home!

The building was pretty well deserted by now, and against the silence he
heard the buzzer in his telephone switchboard proclaiming insistently
that some one was trying to get him on the telephone. His hour of
recollection hadn't been a success, but the invasion of it irritated him
none the less. He thought at first he