The Madden boy put the letter down on the table and walked around the room, thinking. The first few minutes were always the hardest. He reasoned with himself frantically, trying to get rid of that lump in his chest. He hated himself; more than that he hated his mother. It was not right to make him feel so guilty. It was not right. People don’t stay home. His father had not stayed home. He had run away to Minnesota; if he happened to marry and have children, why should they stay home? Oh, forget it, forget it. There was the check, now. A boy in a book would send it back with interest. He couldn’t do that. He couldn’t just send it back like that and hurt her feelings. The only frank, honest, brave thing to do was to keep it, in the face of all families, all feelings, all outworn nests and prisons. This was his city, these his mountains. Somewhere in America there was a woman who had borne him, but everywhere there were children being born. What about it? He asked his mother that. What about it? Oh, damn. Someone threw a rock against the door. Furiously he tore it open and looked out. “Oh,” he said, “it’s you. Come in.” Blake Lennard, it was, sitting on a norse and wearing a huge Stetson. He looked light-hearted and absurd, but shy. He started to climb down. “You’re up?” he said. “No one else seems to be. I’ve been riding all over town trying to find my way. What I thought was that maybe you would like to ride; there is another horse up at the house. I had it saddled in case I found anyone. I want to see what it’s like around here. Are you too busy?” “Fine, no, come on in. I’ll be ready in a second.” The hysteria had departed. Until the next letter. Meantime there were all the playboys and the parties. Blake stepped in, looking around with equal interest in everything, the bed with colored blankets tossed in the middle and the dusty bits of art. “Is it yours?” he asked, looking at the picture. “I like it. Don’t you? It’s almost finished: weren’t you working on it? Didn’t I really interrupt?” “No,” said the Madden boy, crushing a piece of paper and throwing it into the fire, “I wasn’t going to finish it. Chuck me that boot, will you?” CHAPTER FOUR Gin dropped her suitcase to the porch with a loud sigh, fished in the rusty mailbox to no avail, and fumbled with her key at the lock. The door swung open at her touch. She stared at Flo, who was garbed in the green kimono that was signal of a rest-day, and who stared back in gloomy impassivity. Her lips were puffed and her eyes were red. “Hello!” cried Gin. “Why are you here?” “Well, guess.” Flo shuffled over to the sofa and a pile of stockings that needed darning. “I got up early this morning and went down to the office, all ready and waiting. I’ve been packed for two days, I was so excited.” “I know.”