“I am a better egoist than the people around me,” he said. “I will not be forced to display my private organs as often as they. Only an absolute egoist can afford to be calm and more obscurely naked. If I indulge, at rare intervals, a secret grin will gain its reward.” His thoughts had mounted these conclusions as he sat one night in Clara’s studio, with his legs tucked in above a scarlet cushion. She looked at him with a petulant question on her face. “Carl, why are you forever arousing the enmity of people?” she asked. “Because I detest most of them; because I like straight lines and angles in conduct while they prefer curves and circles; and for a variety of reasons.” “But, Carl, you don’t need to be so deliberate about antagonizing people.” “I’m not. I’m simply myself most of the time--a difficult task, but it can be achieved.” “Well, everybody is sneering at your latest stunt. Why, oh why, did you have to parade down Scott street smoking that long Chinese pipe of yours, with a red ribbon tied to the stem? Carl, sometimes I almost believe that you love to pose!” “I ain’t guilty, I swear it. When that group of my poems came out in the big eastern magazine I simply felt that the event demanded an unashamed celebration. It was like the christening of a healthy child and I wanted something stronger than whiskey or wine. An odd longing that comes to me sometimes. I decided to commit the inexplicable crime of becoming immersed in a new toy of motion. I fitted a rubber mouthpiece over the tip of the pipe and used it half of the time as a cane. I’ve been told that a crowd followed me but I didn’t turn my head to investigate.” “Well, everyone has heard about it and they’re all calling you a cheap little poseur. And, really, I don’t know that they’re wrong. I never felt so angry in my life. You love to attract the attention of other people and you’ll make every kind of excuse rather than admit this fact!” He showed an outburst of surface anger. “You can act more impulsively in a camp of lumber-jacks than before a crowd of so-called artists and writers,” he said. “The lumber-jacks might regard you with a simple amazement, or an unrestrained laughter, but at least they’d grant you the sincerity of insanity! Since I must choose between stupid people I prefer the more roughly natural ones.” “I’m tired of hearing you call everybody a hypocrite,” said Clara. “It’s just a nice way that you have of defending your own actions!” He arose and reached for his cap. “I’ll leave you to this weariness,” he said angrily. “It may be possible that, as I walk down the street, no one will believe that I’m striding along in a highly deliberate manner. The thought is pleasant.” “Carl, don’t be foolish,” she said, half-repentantly, but without answering he walked out of the studio.