She ambled out, still keyed to that impalpable warm measure kindling her feet, her hips, the drone of her soft voice. The door’s gentle click made him alone. He relaxed forward in his chair. Crumpled hands held his sharp, fine chin. His eyes were disturbed. They wandered. They saw his room: sharply each object in his room caught in his eyes and held there. His eyes were hurt because they saw no farther. He jumped up, flung his coat. He ran his fingers through the high, blond hair. He faced his books. Spencer’s “First Principles” ... “Introduction to Anthropology” ... Dewey’s “How We Think” ... caught like long splinters in his eyes. He shook his head as if to shake them out. Then he took the psychology book and settled, rigid in his chair, to read. His mind held back. It seemed stiff and small, dry and remote. It gave no attention to the book. It gave no attention, now, to the movement of his body as the book fell from limp hands and he was stepping to the corner where stood his ’cello. He placed a stool. His body flexed and grew co-ordinate as it received the instrument. Softly, with eyes arching beyond him and his mind still gone, he began to bow. His mind held away no more. It broke forward. It leaped, it sang: his fingers moved with delicate precision making slow music. ... The street. A woman, tall, clouded in dark glow, whom he had seen, whom he had seen in the street. His mind out there beat against her uprightness; it was a sea beating and breaking against her. It went up, it went down--as did his fingers--avail-less. ... Then his mother. There was no doubt, she reminded him of his mother who had died when he was a lad in Holland. Karl Loer bent his face upon his loved ’cello and played deep, plaintive words. He saw the woman whom he had passed so often in the street.... She has arms piteous towards a man who is her husband. She pleads with her arms. She wears a straight black dress. And underneath her dress he saw her breast. It is bleeding! There is an iron bar, clamped hard and close, on the breasts of the woman! His fingers stopped. He drew his bow dazedly back and forth. He jumped up. “O you! O you!” he cried, clutching his loved instrument. “I could wring your neck. I could dash you to bits--” He lifted his ’cello in violence with both hands above his face. Softly he laid it on the couch. He stood now with eyes free and found that he was thinking of his life. “What nonsense! what nonsense!” he began. He had forgotten how he had begun.... “Mother, this woman ... two women I have never known.” He loved his mother. She was French. He recalled her stately and dark in a town of light, plump people. He recalled her lovely in a world of clods.