Driven to shifts in order to see Ruth, and deciding that the long walk from north Oakland to her house and back again consumed too much time, he kept his black suit in pawn in place of his bicycle.  The latter gave him exercise, saved him hours of time for work, and enabled him to see Ruth just the same.  A pair of knee duck trousers and an old sweater made him a presentable wheel costume, so that he could go with Ruth on afternoon rides.  Besides, he no longer had opportunity to see much of her in her own home, where Mrs. Morse was thoroughly prosecuting her campaign of entertainment.  The exalted beings he met there, and to whom he had looked up but a short time before, now bored him.  They were no longer exalted.  He was nervous and irritable, what of his hard times, disappointments, and close application to work, and the conversation of such people was maddening.  He was not unduly egotistic.  He measured the narrowness of their minds by the minds of the thinkers in the books he read.  At Ruth’s home he never met a large mind, with the exception of Professor Caldwell, and Caldwell he had met there only once.  As for the rest, they were numskulls, ninnies, superficial, dogmatic, and ignorant.  It was their ignorance that astounded him.  What was the matter with them?  What had they done with their educations?  They had had access to the same books he had.  How did it happen that they had drawn nothing from them?

He knew that the great minds, the deep and rational thinkers, existed.  He had his proofs from the books, the books that had educated him beyond the Morse standard.  And he knew that higher intellects than those of the Morse circle were to be found in the world.  He read English society novels, wherein he caught glimpses of men and women talking politics and philosophy.  And he read of salons in great cities, even in the United States, where art and intellect congregated.  Foolishly, in the past, he had conceived that all well-groomed persons above the working class were persons with power of intellect and vigor of beauty.  Culture and collars had gone together, to him, and he had been deceived into believing that college educations and mastery were the same things.

Well, he would fight his way on and up higher.  And he would take Ruth with him.  Her he dearly loved, and he was confident that she would shine anywhere.  As it was clear to him that he had been handicapped by his early environment, so now he perceived that she was similarly handicapped.  She had not had a chance to expand.  The books on her father’s shelves, the paintings on the walls, the music on the piano—­all was just so much meretricious display.  To real literature, real painting, real music, the Morses and their kind, were dead.  And bigger than such things was life, of which they were densely, hopelessly ignorant.  In spite of their Unitarian proclivities and their masks of conservative broadmindedness, they were two generations