Nagar was within and the galleys were stretched out under the light. Pidge had never seen Miss Claes and Nagar quite like this. They appeared happy over something they had found in Dicky Cobden’s isolation and melancholy--happy as in the news of a legacy. “Why, don’t you see?” said Miss Claes strangely. “He’s pondering on Life! He thinks he’s reporting--when really he is giving himself to Life. The world stretches out before his eyes without glamour, stripped. He offers himself to it, but his writing contains a confession with the weariness of the ages on it, that he has nothing to give--that he is a sham like all the rest. There’s not a self-pose in all his pages.” Nagar had slipped out. Miss Claes came close and added softly: “Richard is finer than we knew, Pidge. What happened here in this house has prepared him--always the wrecker before the builder.” “You mean, I’m the wrecker?” “You couldn’t have done differently.... Too bad he isn’t to see Mohandas Gandhi. Nagar has received word that the Little Man is returning to India. Richard didn’t go to Natal first.” “He’ll be so sorry,” Pidge said. “It was Nagar’s story that drew him to Africa----” Their eyes met; no need to amplify. “Dicky’s so deadly in earnest,” Pidge went on. “He sees what he sees the same at ten in the morning and at ten at night. His coming to Harrow Street didn’t mean a whim. His part that night of our Punjabi dinner didn’t mean a whim. Oh, but I’m so glad he hasn’t started out to save the world!” “He’s preparing to work better than that.” “I feel so ungrateful for not missing him more,” Pidge added unsteadily, “for not being more interested in this that pleases you. I can appreciate, but oh, Miss Claes, I don’t belong to your way of seeing things. I’ll always be Dicky Cobden’s hangman, always hurting myself more!” They were standing close together. “Nothing matters to me but myself!” Pidge moaned. “I’m hopelessly lost in myself--that’s what’s the matter! What room have I for Africa or the world? There’s more to me in the struggle of John Higgins not to get drunk--in the body hunger and body love of Fanny Gallup--in the lies of Rufus Melton! I can understand this world-service thing--oh, I can see the nations like chessmen on the table!--but I can’t fix Fanny Gallup or John Higgins, I can’t fix Rufus Melton. I can’t fix myself!” XV THE COBDEN INTERIOR