It was almost useless to argue with him, to destroy him. No matter what he said or what he was doing she could see him always as he really was--a silent figure walking blindly over men and buildings, over days and nights; walking with its eyes snarling and its mouth tightened; walking over days and nights after a phantom--a silent figure walking after a phantom. The phantom whispered, "Come" ... and the silent figure nodded its head and followed. That was how she saw him when her heart yielded, when she desired again to throw herself before him, make herself the phantom he was following. But the obsession in her changed the picture slowly. Not a phantom but a face she knew--the face of the crowd. A wild fanged monster that had cast a spell over her lover and he went walking blindly after it calling words to it, singing lullabys to it, when all these things should have been for her. Their talk began as she wished it. He was ill at ease. Why had he come? He was afraid to stay away? Why? She wondered questions as he sat uncertainly in the chair and offered vague gossip and information to explain his presence. Then she said abruptly: "I'm writing a story. I've decided not to do any more poetry but write a story--a book, maybe." He nodded. "What about?" he asked. "People. About people," she smiled. She noticed his body stiffen and his eyes grow hard. "Yes, about people," he repeated slowly. He was cautious when he came to see her now. She had reason to make demands of him. She had given herself to him and he didn't trust her. And she was always trying to do something to him. He knew this. It was hard to understand her lately but one thing was easy--she was not to be trusted. "How they come together in crowds," she continued evenly, "and lose themselves in a common identity. How they become a hideous, unreasoning savage--a single savage. I'm going to write a book making this savage the ... the hero." She paused to look at him. He was inattentive but she knew better. "You should be interested," she smiled. "Why should I be interested?" he asked slowly. "Because you write about people, too." "Yes." "Or think you do," she went on. "I'm going to write about people as a crowd--as one savage without a brain. That's the crowd. And this savage is the hero of my story. Without a brain to think he creates out of his savagery the Gods, laws and illusions under which you and I live, Lief. Do you understand that?" He looked at her without answer. Her heart grew alive with strength. She knew he was incapable of any answer but anger. His anger could usually defeat her but this time she felt she could laugh at him when he began to scowl. She stood up.