He looked up and saw that there were tears in his wife’s eyes. “It’s true,” she said. “Women do feel like that.” He was bewildered. “All women,” she went on. “But I didn’t think men knew. How _did_ you know?” He was about to tell her how he knew, when she spoke again, softly. “I’m glad she found so beautiful a lover.” Then he was ashamed, of what, he hardly knew, unless it was of what he seemed to his wife. He realized that he was to her merely what he had laboured for twelve years to seem to all the world. Not the foolish adventurer of his tale; no, she could never believe that. He imagined how it would sound to her if he pretended to be that man in the story. It would be the strangest argument in the annals of marriage. He could prove nothing; his secret was fatally secure. She would say, “You have dreamed it, dear.” And seeing himself with her eyes, he was shaken by a doubt. Perhaps it _had_ been just a dream. _VII. Catharsis._ But presently a thought of bitter comfort came; he would tell his friend the story-writer, who would do what was after all the only sensible thing to do with a dream in this world, sell it to other dreamers. And after a time that was what happened. THE DISTANT STREET BY FRANCIS EDWARDS FARAGOH From _The New Pearson’s_ (Pearson’s Magazine, 157 E. Ohio St., Chicago, Ill.) On the sidewalk pools of yellow light. Stretches of evening-tinted pavement between them, around them. Gray pavement, with touches of black. To Emmanuel, as he stood in the uncertainly lighted doorway of the college building, the street called out. The yellow pools leaped out of their own flatness; they sang and touched his hands. Still, he dared not leave the doorway. Every evening it was the same. The street was not for him. The yellow bits of sidewalk, stealing their gold from the lights of the soft-curtained doors, low windows along the street, were not his. He was an outsider. For three years, ever since he had started going to the college, he had known that. And now, again, he felt that he would always remain an outsider. Sometimes, during the day, Emmanuel would look out of the window of one of the classrooms and try to understand the street. But while daylight was on the pavements, the street was very much like other streets. It was only in the evening that it became alluring, that it became forbidding, throwing light-kisses that were not for him. No, it would not be wise to go into the street, thought Emmanuel. But he knew that, although impotent rage was causing his legs to tremble, he loved all the hasty-gabled houses and arched doorways, the lawns with their now dusky smiles. This street had a song about it. His own street--that other one, downtown, under the humpbacked shadow of the Williamsburg bridge--had no song. It had only butcher shops and fruit stands and grimy children and smells. Garbage cans and stoops that were unswept and slouching houses which pushed their bellies out into the evening and grinned.