Again evening had overtaken Santa Fé before anything happened. Every morning Blake woke with a furious desire to get out of the house and down to town, so that he would not miss anything. He never knew what it was that he expected, and day after day developed into the same uneventful solar round. Nevertheless every morning brought with it a tense expectation, a silent waiting. Tonight he wondered fretfully why the fever was not allayed. It had been a full day, exciting and tiring. The whole town was tired. The drums were still beating in his ears: when he closed his eyes he tried to see the rows of stamping people and the waving branches: but instead he kept thinking of the crowds that filled the village _plaza_; old ladies in felt hats sitting on the roofs, their fat legs dangling over, their fat hands waving to other old ladies on the opposite roofs.... “Missing so much and so much,” he murmured, and felt a little revenged. And the keen young people so greatly to be envied, who knew everything—hatless, collar-less, sparsely bearded young men with folded arms and languid looks; wispy, eager young women; officious, anxious, sweating couriers in jangling silver. And the broad khaki backs of the motor tourists. Around and between them the frantic, shocking, stunning leaps of the ghost-men appearing through the gaps. The drumming in his ears; he was shaken and irritated and cheated: he wanted to cry. “But our lot crawls between dry ribs to keep its metaphysics warm.” Did that have anything to do with it? “Always the appropriate thing.” In a gust of fury he kicked a pebble far up the pavement, spinning and skipping. The waiting was not satisfied. Perhaps he was not, after all, the only one to feel that way. The plaza, dark in the centre but lighted around the sidewalk, was full of people looking for something. It was a small plaza, insufficient for so many prowling people, walking round and round. In the shadows of the north side he found Madden, lounging on a bench and more or less waiting for him. “We’ll have to go to the cafe,” he said, as Blake came up. “Everything else is jammed. I’m not hungry, are you?” “No. I ate dust all day. Did you smell that jerked meat?” “Oh, that. You’ll get used to that.” They crossed the plot of grass and elbowed through the procession on the walk. The cafe was crowded too. Only half disappointed, they loitered at the door, peering in at the restaurant until they drew a hail from Harvey and Gin, who had a booth. “Come on over,” Harvey said. “Plenty of room.” Gin gathered her skirts and edged to the wall invitingly. Blake glowered at her, representative as she was of the whole jostling day. “I saw you there,” she told him, “looking very fierce. I’m sorry. You might have pitied me a little, and you didn’t. I know you didn’t: I see it in your eye.” She smiled teasingly and he felt a little mollified.