They stood on the street corner gossiping. Young Goode's brown eyes desponded from boredom. Very handsome. A black mustache. His nose almost Greek. His head empty--only a few clever thoughts. "Hello, Hurst." "Hello, Goode, old chap. Yes, going out to Marburne to-morrow--Wilson and his wife. How are you? What do you think of the election? Glad that crook, Hallowell, got kicked out." Goode said he was thinking of turning Bolshevist. His smile was self-appreciative. Ludicrous! "Well, I hope not. Haven't come to that yet. But the patriotism of some of these ward heelers is pretty thin. Yes--hope we'll see you." They moved apart. Young Goode grew small in distance. A dark vanishing speck down the glaring street. Christ, what a hot day! Charles mumbled over some obscene expressions. I don't want to think. (Catherine, lilies, white and beautiful neck.) Charles had gone all the way to town on foot. In front of the building where his office was located he encountered Mr. Wilson. "Hello! Hello! What do you think of this for the beginning of fall? Hot, eh? About time for another drink? Yes, going out to your wife's new place. Kate says it's quite a buy. Not yours? What's a husband now-a-days! Superfluous critter. Endured but not wanted." Mr. Wilson's eyes were twinklingly submerged between his fat cheeks and bulging brows. He hadn't time for a drink. He wanted to talk business before he left town. He chuckled at everything Charles said. His full cheeks quivered and his neat belly shook in the opening of his coat. Charles was wary of unqualified approbation, but the more suspicious he became the more easy and Rabelaisian was his conversation. "Well--well--well, Hurst! I'll be--" Mr. Wilson actually suffered in delight. They had seated themselves in Charles's inner room, a handsome heavy desk between them. Charles gazed with cold innocent eyes at the laughing fat man opposite. When Mr. Wilson had gone Charles opened a cupboard and took out a bottle. In business hours he was very moderate in his indulgence. A long white road, just empty, going nowhere. The car jumped to his touch. How cool and still it had been in the woods at evening when he and Julia drove home. That's beautiful. Myself beautiful, wanting to be loved. Fat old fool. Little children, little children, come unto me. My God, he said out loud, I'm getting a screw loose. Growing senile! Julia--that hurts. I can't think of that. Kate, poor girl! All day he felt as though the memory of some pathetic death had made him kind. * * * * *