“We feel a sense of welcome, when we feel a sense of one-ness. Is that not so? Well--now we’re at the kernel. Beauty is nothing but a sense of welcome within, that we transfer onto an object, because the impulse of life is to transfer. A sense of harmony, in other words.” “A sense of harmony with filthy hovels and cruel skyscrapers!” “Absolutely. Something in them is in you,--is truth. You feel that vaguely, through the filth and the stolen decoration. And you call all of it beautiful.” “Why,” laughed Quincy, “you make me think I was paying a visit to myself, in extension.” “Well, what else gripped you? Was it the architecture?” They laughed together. And then, in the silence, the boy pondered. “You’re right,” he said at last. “I felt it also,--that I had been looking into myself. Now, I can do more than feel it--thanks to you; I can express it.” He paused. “The devil! Then all these brutalities and contrasts and flauntings are truth? And they’re in me, also--at least, what makes them be!” “Don’t you also belong to the world?” Quincy looked sharply at his friend. This question moved him. He thought of his life, so far. He thought of the havoc which even this little glimpse of the world had played with him. He grew sombre and his eyes lost their liquid glow of relaxation. “Something’s wrong,” he said solemnly. “If I belong to the world, there’s that within me objects to it. It cries out, objecting. It felt the beauty, that day. And, as you say, that meant that it recognized a fellowship, a harmony. But it hurt, Garsted,--it hurt like being crushed!” Garsted laughed--alone. He could go only a certain way with Quincy. This seemed jejune sensitiveness. From the moment of that laughter, the boy discovered that there were things and states about which it was unwise to talk, even in the rare circumstance of being able to. VI One day, on the street, Quincy saw Professor Deering. Quincy was hurt at the Professor. He was in a mood for a cold bow that would leave its mark. But the big man stopped him and talked the mood away in cordiality. “Mr. Burt--I am ashamed of myself,” he smiled wanly. “There have been worries and they have made me rude. Walk me home, now, will you?” Quincy followed tacitly at his side. “I was very grateful for that paper,” went on the Professor. “I gave Snowdon of the _Monthly_ a piece of my mind for rejecting it. But tell me, how are you?” “I am getting on, thank you, Professor Deering.” “That is as it should be. I am glad to hear it. I wasn’t so sure of you, you see.” Quincy’s heart sank. It was as if he had been found out, as if a guilt had been fixed on him. Yet, he knew that the Professor’s words tokened merely respect and an unusual interest. The Professor went on: “You evidently have qualities of rebellion, Mr. Burt. If you have the strength to support what these qualities will always bring you, I have no fear for you. But it is more common to revolt than to support what revolt sets up.”