Quincy was in his new room, alone. Just back of and above his head burned a naked gas-jet for which he had not yet bought a globe. To his right was an open window and within it, the street; within the street were autumn and the city. It was a quiet street. Its smooth pavements answered the beat of traffic as a windless lake responds to the tossing of pebbles. From each liquid impact went forth a wreath of murmurs to an impassive marge, like ripples on the water. He was that marge. Yet, from another point he was that stone, weighted and insignificant, dropped on the surface murmur now turned lake, and wrinkling for the brief span of passage--to the bottom. Car-bells and human voices lay upon the undertone like false jewels on a rich garment. Their movement trembled, cutting through the haze of evening sound as a jewel’s gleam might fall on satin. Quincy stood silently receptive, while the light dozed about him and the violet evening grew purple night through the window. Before his eyes was a mirror. He was examining himself. He saw his face. He saw his sinewed neck drawn down within the flaring collar of his open shirt. He saw the muscles move on his haired forearm; he saw the knotted twist and the lean length of his hand. He met his eyes. From the reflected yellow flame, they glowed almost bronze beneath their blue. It was as if violets were blooming among autumn stubble--an impossibility. Just so, there was the hectic flush beside the spring freshness of their mien. He was young. Yet, his way of gazing in the glass was the way of one who had been a journey. He left his eyes and saw his mouth. The lips were brown. Vertical, faint lines broke their roundness as the parch cracks the earth. And then, his eyes’ focus wandered, receiving all of him. He saw himself. As he looked, the form of his long head and of his flaring forehead fallen over with black hair was within his gaze like a clear thing in a mist. As he looked, he could not but watch his mouth part, his upper teeth bite down upon his lower lip, his jaw thrust gradually forward, the lines of his throat straighten and hollow with strain. At the same time, his eyes grew more reflective of the glow above him, less tinged with the blue that came from within. His eyes also were rigid. His hands were on his hips. And his arms fell, relaxed as his face rose, stiffened. But gradually there was less of this; always less. For it was not this at which he looked. As the picture on the glass grew dimmer, he began to think--another way of looking. The mental picture waxed, until it was no less clear, no less striking. But it was bitterly at variance with the other. He had not escaped the charm of strength and rhythm in this portrait of himself. But all of it was irony, as he turned inward. And thus inclined, the outer semblance hung upon his thoughts as does a gay refrain pinned, for its recurrent mockery, to a sad song. * * * * *