The crowds flayed him with dull black strokes and Tom was separate from his first months in the City. He twined this with thoughts of David. It was different of course. David must have found a ready welcome in the house of his uncle. Tom knew of Anthony Deane: his name was that of a big-hearted, well-liked merchant. Tom had come with no reception, no one to remake and to keep him. He thought of a stone fallen in a wind-shattered sea, how it sank with no slightest added tremor of wave and no sign from the swinging heavens. He knew what the City had done upon him. The terracing steel had rivetted his eyes and writhed him. The clamor of this world had soon enticed him from the call of his old thoughts. Old dreams were outrun by the faëry of the City. He stood naked there, and emptied among millions. Cornelia was distant with her cold hand in his. But he was more alive than he had been. He knew this, because his nudity was not stark. It was encased in a great trembling. It was cold with a great hunger for warmth. A fire of will stirred in him: darted from him out and became vision among the millions. He had seen. He saw that these millions also were naked and forlorn from themselves. No one was at home in the City: no one was himself in the City! Tom had found himself smiling, known himself strong. He was naked no longer. _He was clothed in the knowledge of the nakedness of others_.... At once he had looked at his hands and found money. He prospered. But Tom knew that this light from within himself which played about among the darkness of men and brought him the strength of knowledge could not go forth from him and stay in him as well. When it was away, outside, doing his work Success, he was unlit himself. Would he find David still shivering in his new nakedness? Tom remembered the distinction between them. “No,” he said aloud: “he’ll be thinking there’s darkness and confusion all about, in the blinding blare of his own light. And blaming it all on himself.” He winced, suddenly finding it cold. The dark pupils of his eyes distended, the mouth drew downward over the lower lip, the skin was taut on his cheek-bones. Then a recovering spark in his eyes illumed their warm particles of bistre, the defiant smile of his mouth pointed upward. The lamps of the restaurant façade fell over Tom and bathed him. He had the sudden pain of feeling himself a black spot in warm blaze. He moved aside to shadow. He stepped out, and grasped David’s hand. A coachman stood at the corner beside his horse. Idly he flapped his arms--a habit caught from the cold winters--against the musty broadcloth of his coat. He saw the two young men in the light. Their profiles were sharp. An eager alert young man and a drowsy one, passive before him. A clear laugh and a muffled laugh that followed always. The coachman turned to his horse: “Well, young feller, have some oats?” He prodded his soft nose. The other two were gone.