“I like that figure about the rapids,” said Stanny, off on a tack of his own. “That’s what life is, a rapids. And you have no boat. You are up to your knees in it; or your waist; or your neck; just as your luck may be. With the current tearing at you without a letup. And no shores to climb out on. Steep walls of rock on either side. All you can do is to lean against the current, and drag your feet up, one step at a time.” Wilfred experienced an actual physical pain that made him grit his teeth. “That’s all damn nonsense!” he said, exasperated with compassion. “The rock of a fixed idea that you’ve been knocking your head against through life! Why insist on it, and make yourself wretched? It is equally as true to say that one may sail downstream with life. The purest pleasure I ever experienced was in shooting rapids in a small boat. I didn’t know what was around the bend, either!” “Oh well, it’s all talk!” said Stanny, smiling and unconvinced. Wilfred looked at him, biting his lip. Often one longed to beat the wrong-headed, unhappy Stanny. Taswell’s mind was still worrying over the original proposition. Taswell was at a disadvantage, because in his person at this moment he was offering a sad commentary on the optimistic philosophy that he cherished. While he scorned Wilfred’s ideas, he was strongly drawn to them. “According to you,” he said to Wilfred, “everything in the world is wrong and rotten!” “Not everything,” said Wilfred. “Only certain human institutions.” “The Joe Kaplans,” suggested Stanny. Taswell, suddenly roused, brought down the soft side of his fist on the table. “Oh, _damn_ him!” he said thickly. “Hear! Hear!” said Stanny and Wilfred. “You, too?” But Taswell’s eyes bolted. He pressed his lips together. “What brought Kaplan into your mind just then?” asked Wilfred of Stanny. “He’s just added ‘Truth’ to his string of newspapers and magazines,” said Stanny. “He’s put in a stinker as art editor. I had a row with him. I can see that I am booked to go down where it’s steep.” They were silent for awhile. “What _is_ right in the world?” asked Taswell at length. Wilfred, feeling shamefaced before this hard-eyed young stranger, grinned and said: “Well, love.” Taswell’s eyes bolted again. They all felt inclined to blush. “Now he’s off on his favorite rocking-horse,” said Stanny. Laughter relieved the strain. Taswell’s laughter was brief. “Well, if you ask me,” he said harshly, “love leads you into the blackest hole of them all!” Neither of the other two looked at him. “I don’t mean the love of women,” said Wilfred, diffidently. “He means general love,” said Stanny. “I know all this by heart.” “I never could get that idea,” said Taswell. “Sounds weak . . . scattered to me. I can’t love everybody. I don’t want to.” “Well, say understanding,” amended Wilfred. “If I had been Christ I would have put it: ‘Know ye one another!’” “According to your notions, do women fare any better in life?” Taswell demanded abruptly.