“The Intellectual Playboy,” he said. “I can say what I like—because nobody cares. That’s the truth. There’s nothing heroic in differing with the crowd when the crowd pays you to do it.” “Do you want to be heroic, Felix?” “Yes. I’d like to live in a world where ideas counted for something—where people might put you in jail if you disagreed with them. Then it would be worth while to have opinions of one’s own. One could find out whether one really believed in one’s ideas!” “Find out—how?” “By suffering for them a little.” “You _are_ a Puritan!” “It’s not that.... I want the feeling of other minds resisting the impact of my own, as sword clashes with sword. How can I know whether my ideas are true unless they are put to that test? But I’m let think as I please. It’s not a battle, it’s a sleight-of-hand performance. It’s vaudeville.” “I didn’t know you felt that way about your work, Felix.” “You want to throw up your job, Rose-Ann. Why shouldn’t I?” She could not quite tell whether he meant it or not. “And write?” she asked. “Oh, yes. But that’s not enough. I’m going to do something hard.—Oh, I could be what’s called a literary artist ... the _mot juste_ and all that; that’s easy, too. One has only to be sufficiently bored or unhappy.... No, I want to deal with something harder than words. I want to build something with my hands—a house, for instance. Why not?” She leaned forward, smiling. It was sufficiently clear that he was not in earnest. “Where will you build your house?” “Not in this golden land where it is always afternoon. And not too near Chicago, either. Do you remember the Dunes where we picnicked last summer? There, perhaps. Away from everything.” “I know where you mean. Yes. What kind of house will you build?” “I suppose that depends to some extent on how much money I have. Let me see, I had thrown up my job a moment ago! I take it back again. Now that I have a house to build, I shall need it. How much do houses cost?” “It depends on how large they are.” “This will be large, but not too large, I should say.” “Then it will take a small, but not too small, sum of money.” “Just as I thought. And if anybody should be so foolish as to want my play—” “But do you really mean all this, Felix?” “Why not? Why can’t I have a house like other people? I realize more and more as time goes on that I am not essentially different from other people. They want houses. Why shouldn’t I?” “If you’re in earnest about it, then it isn’t a house you mean, Felix. It’s a studio. That wouldn’t cost very much.” “No. A house!” he insisted. “But why a house?” she asked. “Why do people want houses?” he countered. “But—” she said. “Yes?” “You want a place to write in, Felix.” “I shall write in the barn,” he said. “Oh, is there to be a barn?” “Don’t you think a barn would be nice?” “I think a barn would be lovely. But then what is the house for?”