"I will tell you what it is: you think the rich are unfair. You didn't like Uncle Brome's talk about the Pullman people." "No, and more than that," he protested; "I don't know anything about the Pullman matter; but I hate the--successful. I guess that's about it." "You think they are corrupt and luxurious and all that?" As she spoke she waved one hand negligently toward the Aurora in the hall. They both laughed at the unspoken argument. "If you feel like that _here_--" "I feel that way pretty much all the time in America," he said bluntly. "It isn't this house or that, this man's millions or that man's; it's the whole thing." Miss Hitchcock looked nonplussed. "Life is based on getting something others haven't,--as much of it as you can and as fast as you can. I never felt that so constantly as I have the last few months. Do you think," he went on hastily, "that Lindsay, that any doctor, can _earn_ fifty thousand a year?" "I don't know. I hate views." Her voice sounded weary and defeated. Sommers rose to his feet, exclaiming, "I thought there were some pretty definite ones, this evening." Miss Hitchcock started, but refused to take the challenge. They faced each other for a moment without speaking. Sommers could see that his blundering words had placed him in a worse position than before. At the same time he was aware that he regretted it; that "views" were comparatively unimportant to a young woman; and that this woman, at least, was far better than views. "Good night," she murmured, lowering her eyes as she gave him her hand. He hesitated a moment, searching for an intelligent word, but finally he turned away without any further attempt to explain himself. It was good to be out in the soft March night, to feel once more the free streets, which alone carry the atmosphere of unprivileged humanity. The mood of the evening was doubtless foolish, boyish, but it was none the less keen and convincing. He had never before had the inner, unknown elements of his nature so stirred; had never felt this blind, raging protest. It was a muddle of impressions: the picture of the poor soul with his clamor for a job; the satisfied, brutal egotism of Brome Porter, who lived as if life were a huge poker game; the overfed, red-cheeked Caspar, whom he remembered to have seen only once before, when the young polo captain was stupid drunk; the silly young cub of a Hitchcock. Even the girl was one of them. If it weren't for the women, the men would not be so keen on the scent for gain. The women taught the men how to spend, created the needs for their wealth. And the social game they were instituting in Chicago was so emptily imitative, an echo of an echo! There was Carson: he was your image of modern power--the lean, hungry, seamed face, surmounted by a dirty-gray pall. He was clawing his way to the top of the heap.