Men and women!  Those men and women passing back and forth and all the millions of their kind, they were what counted.  The things that mattered to them were the things that mattered.  Their needs the things to fight for.

So he reflected and drifted, brushing now this, now that, in thought and fancy.

Weary—­lonely—­he dreamed a dream, dream such as the weary and the lonely have dreamed before, will dream again.  Too utterly alone, he dreamed he was not alone.  Heart-hungry, he dreamed of love.  He dreamed of Ann.  He had dreamed of her before, would dream of her again.  Dream of her, if for nothing else, because he knew she had dreamed of love; because she made him know that it was there, because, unreasoningly, she made him hope.

Her face that night at the dance—­that night in the boat, when they had talked almost not at all, had seemed to feel no need for talking—­things remembered blended with things desired until it seemed he could feel her hair brush his face, feel her breath upon his cheek, her arms about his neck—­vivid as if given by memories instead of wooed from dreams.

But the benign dream became torturing vision—­vision of Ann with hands held out to him—­going down—­her wonderful eyes fearful with terror.

It was that which dreaming held for him.

And it seemed that he—­he and his kind—­all of those who stood for the things not real were the thing beating Ann down.

Dreams gone and vision mercifully falling away there came a yearning, just a simple human yearning, to know where she was.  He felt he could bear anything if only he knew that she was safe.

The telephone rang.  He supposed it was some of his friends—­something about the hour for dining.

He would not answer.  Could not.  Too sick of it all—­too sore.

But it kept ringing, and, habit in the ascendency, he took down the receiver.

It was not a man’s voice.  It was a woman’s.  A faint voice—­he could scarcely catch it.

And could with difficulty reply.  He did not know the voice, it was too faint, too far-away, but a suggestion in it made his own voice and hand unsteady as he said:  “Yes?  What is it?”

“Is this—­Captain Jones?”

The voice was stronger, clearer.  His hand grew more unsteady.

“Yes,” he replied in the best voice he could muster.  “Yes—­this is Captain Jones.  Who is it, please?”

There was a silence.

“Tell me, please,” he managed to say.  “Is it—?”

The voice came faintly back, “Why it’s—­Ann.”

The keenest joy he had ever known swept through him.  To be followed by the most piercing fear.  The voice was so faint—­so unreal—­what if it were to die away and he would have no way to get it back!

It seemed he could not hold it.  For an instant he was crazed with the sense of powerlessness.  He felt it must even then be slipping back into the abyss from which it had emerged.