Thyrsis held himself in, and parted from the editor with all courtesy; but then, as he walked down Fifth Avenue, his fury burst into flame. Here, too, was power--here, too, the signs of it! Palaces of granite and marble, arid towering apartment-hotels; an endless vista of carriages and automobiles, with rich women lolling in them, or descending into shops whose windows blazed with jewels and silver and gold. Here were the masters of the metropolis, the masters of life; the dispensers of patronage--that “public” which he had to please. He would bring his vision and lay it at their feet, and they would give him or deny him opportunity! And what was it that they wanted? Was it worship and consecration and love? One could read the answer in their purse-proud glances; in the barriers of steel and bronze with which they protected the gates of their palaces; in the aspects of their flunkeys, whose casual glances were like blows in the face. One could read the answer in the pitiful features of the little errand-girl who went past, carrying some bit of their splendor to them; or of the ragged beggar, who hovered in the shelter of a side-street, fearing their displeasure. No, they were not lovers of life, and protectors; they were parasites and destroyers, devourers of the hopes of humanity! Their splendors were the distilled essence of the tears and agonies of millions of defeated people--their jewels were drops of blood from the heart of the human race! Section 5. So, with rage and bitterness, Thyrsis was gnawing out his soul in the night-time; distilling those fierce poisons which he was to pour into the next of his works--the most terrible of them all, and the one which the world would never forgive him. There came another episode, to bring matters to a crisis. In the far Northwest lived another branch of Thyrsis’ family, the head of which had become what the papers called a “lumber-king”. One of this great man’s radiant daughters was to be married, and the family made the selecting of her trousseau the occasion for a flying visit to the metropolis. So there were family reunions, and Thyrsis was invited to bring his wife and call. Corydon voiced her perplexity. “What do they want to see _us_ for?” she asked. “I belong to their line,” he said. “But--you are poor!” she exclaimed. “I know,” he said, “but the family’s the family, and they are too proud to be snobbish.” “But--why do they ask me?” Thyrsis pondered. “They know we have published a book,” he said. “It must be their tribute to literature.” “Are they people of culture?” she asked. “Not unless they’ve tried very hard,” he answered. “But they have old traditions--and they want to be aristocratic.” “I won’t go,” said Corydon. “I couldn’t stand them.”