... A sad play with laughing music ... little streams of water running up the dark side of a mountain. Impossible ... unreal. Fanny saw the breaking audience. It rose and splintered in the new light house. Men and women suddenly distinct like the jewels in their hair, like the hard smiles, hard lines of face against the new blare of the lighted house. No. The play was real. Laughter went twinkling up the steep of mountains. Laughter flowed up hill. That was the way of laughter.--You men and women falling away downhill, have you never laughed? Upward! upward! Fanny pressed Clara’s arm. They stood in the night. The breast of Fanny flowed with her hurt and her life: her heart was liquid at last: her hurt and her life, pressed so long against the urge of Clara, melted and flowed. She took the hands of her friend. She pressed them. She knew what was to be.... They walked through the broken throng of men and women parting, waiting: through the bright weave of carriage calls, whispers, farewells: through the new freshet of the City’s stream spreading in blue and green and gold, soon lost. They walked in silence. They were putting off a moment of decision. The Elevated Structure stood like a sentence. Fanny’s arm that had held Clara’s dropped to her side. A train, jingling with lights, drew past.... --It goes and goes, it comes to the window where I work, to the window where I stand this instant at a table. I tear and rip ... I work in the thick shadows of dead life. I look at the train that passes. It is there! Fanny held out her hand.... A little man, square black beard, small red lips, sharp greedy eyes, stood with his hairy hands upon her shoulders. Mr. Rachmann!--She sought the hand of her friend. Clara’s lips sharpened. “Where do you live?” she spoke. “I want to see you soon.” Fanny shook her head. Mr. Rachmann went. The lips of Clara parted, they were wet. “I do not understand.” “Look at me, Clara.” “You won’t let me see you?” “O do understand! Can you see me? Can we see each other, Dear?” Clara’s face broke. “You can’t do this. You can’t. You don’t know what you mean. Let me come. I am all alone. O don’t judge me, Fanny!” “You know I don’t judge you.” “Let me see you ... once.” They were rigid in struggle. “Clara, I am afraid to see you.” ... Still.... “I am going a way that is terrible and unknown. It does not get easier. There is no getting used to it. Each moment, there is yearning to turn ... get out ... fall away....” The girl straightened. “You think I do not understand,” came her clearer voice. “But I do. More than you, perhaps.... You need not give me your address.” Fanny was warm and broken against the clearness of Clara.--What does this mean? Why do I reject her? She was still. “Good-by,” said Clara. --You need me. You need me? Say that you need me, girl. The hand of each held more than the hand of the other.