Ray’s thought darted almost instantly to his own book, and ran it over in every part, seeking whether there might be something in it that was too bold for a timid publisher, or a timid publisher’s professional readers. He was aware of old Hughes monologuing on with the satisfaction of an author who speaks of his work to a listener he has at his mercy. “My book is a criticism of modern life in all its aspects, though necessarily as the field is so vast, I can touch on some only in the most cursory fashion. For instance, take this whole architectural nightmare that we call a city. I hold that the average tasteless man has no right to realize his ideas of a house in the presence of a great multitude of his fellow-beings. It is an indecent exposure of his mind, and should not be permitted. All these structural forms about us, which with scarcely an exception are ugly and senseless, I regard as so many immoralities, as deliriums, as imbecilities, which a civilized state would not permit, and I say so in my book. The city should build the city, and provide every denizen with a fit and beautiful habitation to work in and rest in.” “I’m afraid,” said Ray, tearing his mind from his book to put it on this proposition, “that such an idea might be found rather startling.” “How, startling? Why, startling?” Hughes demanded. “I don’t know. Wouldn’t it infringe upon private rights? Wouldn’t it be a little tyrannical?” “What private rights has a man in the outside of his house,” Hughes retorted. “The interior might be left to his ignorance and vulgarity. But the outside of my house is not for _me_! It’s for others! The public sees it ten times where I see it once. If I make it brutal and stupid, _I_ am the tyrant, _I_ am the oppressor--I, the individual! Besides, when the sovereign people is really lord of itself, it can and will do no man wrong.” Ray had his misgivings, but he would not urge them, because it was a gnawing misery to think of anything but his story, and he let Hughes break the silence that he let follow. “And so,” the old man said presently, as if speaking of his own book had reminded him of Ray’s, “you have written a novel, young man. And what is your justification for writing a novel at a time like this, when we are all trembling on the verge of a social cataclysm?” “Justification?” Ray faltered. “Yes. How does it justify itself? How does it serve God and help man? Does it dabble with the passion of love between a girl and boy as if that were the chief concern of men and women? Or does it touch some of the real concerns of life--some of the problems pressing on to their solution, and needing the prayerful attention of every human creature?” “It isn’t merely a love-story,” said Ray, glad to get to it on any terms, “though it is a love-story. But I’ve ventured to employ a sort of psychological motive.” “What sort?” “Well--hypnotism.”