The other shook his head. "So do I," he said in a low tone, "but," he waved his hand to the street outside, "do you see much out there that looks like new standards? It's the calendar motto still." For a moment the two men stood in the window reading the street like a book on which figures of men and women like words told the story of the vicinity. Morris's mild, plainly-dressed women doing the morning's marketing, face, features and walk betokening a certain niggardliness with life; a complacent adjustment to the best that has been instead of an insistence upon the best that shall be. Occasional handsome cars holding peevish city faces come to the country for a great poison herb, Novelty. Young people flitting about in droves driven by insatiability and their peculiar disease, leisure and unapplied brains. One or two old forms tottering in the sunshine, pleased, interested with little trivial occurrences, yet powerful, holding the power of prestige. The usual village types, the static parson, the elastic politician, the loafers on the corner, the nameless village woman, the scoundrel village man, the sanctimonious gossips, the schools at twelve pouring out of their hoppers the little victims of all whatever good or ill might be; up and down the streets, these forms, symbols of life, moved and went about their business. But no matter what they spelled in between they wrote irrevocably on the pavements, Greed, and also Fear, and Popularity. They did not write Progress. Watts, his dark face turned on the others, looked inquiringly. "The same as Athens under Pericles, I suppose?" he questioned. "The great souls come and go and agonize and cry in the wilderness, and the little souls determine what shall be." He held out his hand once more and the other gripped it. "You talk like a man-Cassandra," the cashier grumbled, "but I'm coming up on your old mountain top to hear some more of your wild stuff." As Shipman passed down the bank steps he saw the Bogart car sail by and the two tams, the red and the blue, bobbed gaily at him. "See you at the dance next Saturday." It was Minga who called this carelessly. It was the same Minga who a few nights ago on the mountain top had told Watts Shipman she hated him. Now her vivid face framed in its blowing curls looked calm appreciation. The Bunch were "for" Watts; also the big club dance was in the air; her instinct for collecting partners bade her forget the cigarette episode. Watts, while he raised his eyebrows, gestured enthusiastically. Sard also waved her hand, and the flash of her deep eyes got to the man in a way she might not have intended. For a moment he stood and looked after them down the principal little street of Morris. It was the blue tam-o'-shanter that still filled his vision.