"I want to find out what we can do with life!" she said. "Surely it's something more than working to get tired, and then resting to go back to work. But I'm confused about things." She sighed. "My settlement work--I went into it because I was bored. But it did make me realize how many people are hungry. And yet we just talk and talk and talk--Olive and I sit up half the night when she comes to my house, and when we're not talking about the new negligées we're making and the gorgeous tea-gowns we're going to have when we're married, we rescue the poor and think we're dreadfully advanced, but does it do any good to just talk?--Dear me, I split that poor infinitive right down his middle." "I don't know. But I do know I don't want to be just stupidly satisfied, and talking does keep me from that, anyway. See here, Miss Winslow, suppose some time I suggested that we become nice and earnest and take up socialism and single tax and this--what is it?--oh, syndicalism--and really studied them, would you do it? Make each other study?" "Love to." "Does Dunleavy think much?" She raised her eyebrows a bit, but hesitated. "Oh yes--no, I don't suppose he does. Or anyway, mostly about the violin. He played a lot when he was in Yale." Thus was Carl encouraged to be fatuous, and he said, in a manner which quite dismissed Phil Dunleavy: "I don't believe he's very deep. Ra-ther light, I'd say." Her eyebrows had ascended farther. "Do you think so? I'm sorry." "Why sorry?" "Oh, he's always been rather a friend of mine. Olive and Phil and I roller-skated together at the age of eight." "But----" "And I shall probably--marry--Phil--some day before long." She turned abruptly to Charley Forbes with a question. Lost, already lost, was the playmate; a loss that disgusted him with life. He beat his spirit, cursed himself as a clumsy mechanic. He listened to Olive only by self-compulsion. It was minutes before he had the ability and the chance to say to Ruth: "Forgive me--in the name of the Blue Bowl. Mr. Dunleavy was rather rude to me, and I've been just as rude--and to you! And without his excuse. For he naturally would want to protect you from a wild aviator coming from Lord knows where." "You are forgiven. And Phil _was_ rude. And you're not a Lord-knows-where, I'm sure." Almost brusquely Carl demanded: "Come for a long tramp with me, on the Palisades. Next Saturday, if you can and if it's a decent day.... You said you liked to run away.... And we can be back before dinner, if you like."