The walk across the Common after the performance that night wasn’t quite as stimulating as it generally was. Jimmy’s earlier saunter had failed to result in the production of an idea that was even remotely possible of materialization and he had slowly let himself drop into one of those states of moody pre-occupation which are usually fatal to romance. Lolita, too, was strangely silent and detached and their conversation at first was mono-syllabic and intermittent. Presently they came to a bench on the fringes of the park and sat down under the sheltering branches of a great elm, as they had for several nights past. Neither spoke for a minute or two. Jimmy was the first to find voice. “I might have ’em organize a literary society and have one of those Harvard ducks come over some off afternoon and slip ’em a lecture,” he said abstractedly as he stared straight ahead. Lolita eyed him curiously. The speech was so entirely disassociated from his hitherto brief remarks that she couldn’t fathom its significance. “Who?” she asked. “There wouldn’t be time for that, though.” He went on unheedingly. “He’d probably have to take a couple of days to decide and another couple to get his nerve up.” “What are you talking about, Jimmy Martin?” broke in Lolita impatiently. Jimmy came to with a start and laughed foolishly. “Excuse me, girlie,” he replied. “I forgot that you didn’t know anything about it. You see I ain’t really here on this bench at all. I’m right out on a sand-bar and the tide’s comin’ in. I’m goin’ to be all awash in a little while if the life guards don’t come out and pull a rescue.” “I don’t understand,” persisted Lolita. “It’s easy, girlie. I’ve got a case of goods to deliver and the drivers are out on strike. In words of one syllable, sweetheart, I’ve promised Bartlett that I’m goin’ to back the peace pow-wow off on to the inside pages on Monday morning and I’ve been reachin’ out all night for ideas, but I don’t seem to get anywhere at all, not anywhere at all.” “Is it something about some old story for the papers or something like that that’s worrying you?” Jimmy felt impelled to make a snappy rejoinder, but his saner judgment prevailed. He checked himself just in time. “That’s the general idea, girlie,” he said evenly and lapsed into ruminative silence again. It was dark under the old elm and Jimmy couldn’t see Lolita’s face. Had he been able to he would have noted an expression on it that might possibly have given him concern. It was an expression that was a blend of petulance and of something wan and a bit forlorn, a mixture of irritation and of anguish that seemed perilously near the breaking point. When she spoke again her voice was tremulous and low. “Stories, stories, stories,”—she paused with every repetition of the word—“that’s all you think about. What good do they do? What’s the use of them all? They don’t make anybody happier, do they? They don’t mean anything, do they? They really don’t, do they?”