“You ought to have known the scenic genius who preceded Paul. Dick Bernitz, his name was. He was a wild one. Gloom—despair—and, as it turned out, drugs. He came from Nevada. He affected evening clothes—wanted to wear them all day long, in fact! Baudelaire was his god. We were too tame for him. He left us, and starved and froze somewhere in the slums—still in his evening clothes; and got pneumonia and died. And Dick was—just a nice boy who wanted to do beautiful pictures and poems. Nevada did that to him.” “But—why blame Nevada?” “His father was in real-estate. He wanted Dick to sell real-estate.” “Well, and after all, why not? One must do something ordinary—to make a living.” “Why didn’t _you_ do something ordinary? Why did you come to Chicago?” Felix was silent. “I’ve kind of got you bothered, haven’t I?” said the girl maliciously. “You’ve given me something to think about.” He rose. “But I haven’t asked you yet what I was going to. Will you do a play for us?” “I can’t do plays!” “Oh, yes, you can. You write poetry and stories and things, don’t you?” “Do I give myself away as plainly as that?” The girl laughed. “You ought to know that an institution like this is a gathering place for idealists of all sorts and kinds. I know the chief varieties, and you aren’t any of the sociological sorts, so you must be one of the artist kind. Besides, didn’t I hear you talk at dinner?” Felix grinned shamefacedly. “I didn’t disguise myself very well,” he admitted. “But anyway—” He walked impatiently across the little room. His mind was in a state of strange upheaval. All his ideas about Chicago and himself were being upset. He ought not to listen to this girl. He must not let her confuse his plans. In particular he must not become interested in writing. He had put all that aside for the present. His lips twisted in an uneasy grimace. Why, at this moment, when his mind must be braced to meet the impact of realities, should he let himself be drugged with the opium of dreams? Already, at her mere word, the old numbing desire had come in a new guise—a vague, feverish yearning toward the puppet-world of the stage: fascinating half-formed ideas for plays rose like bubbles in his mind. It was a feeling like home-sickness. He must not indulge it. Of course, it would be fun to write a play for this girl, and help invent scenery and costumes for it. But that was not what he had come to Chicago for. He must put aside all enthusiasms which had no relation to the world of work-a-day reality. The very fact that he was so much interested in the idea proved that it was wrong.... He saw now that it was foolish to have ever come to this place—this refuge for idealists and dreamers. The thought of hunting up a new lodging that night suggested itself; but of course it would be hard to find another place half so comfortable—and he must consider his very limited finances.... “Anyway,” he said, pausing in front of the girl, “I _won’t_ write you a play!”