Her lips were an ashen gray.  “You mean you’ll be there ... dead?”

“If you are afraid ...”

“Afraid!” She drew herself up proudly.

“Well ... there is danger for you, too...  I should have thought of that!”

“You do not understand even now.”  She went and stood close to him.  “I love you ... can’t you realize that?”

He felt suddenly abashed, as if he stood convicted of being a cup too shallow to hold her outpouring.

“Good-by,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes, lifting her brow for his waiting kiss.  The heavy perfume of her hair seemed to draw his soul to a prodigal outpouring.  He found her lips again, clasping her close.

“Good-by,” he heard her answer.

And at that moment he felt the mysterious Presence that had swept so close to him on that heartbreaking Christmas Eve at Fairview.

CHAPTER XXII

Storch was standing at the lodging-house door when Fred stepped into the street.

“Well, what now?” Storch inquired, with mock politeness.

“Let’s go home!” Fred returned, emphatically.

Almost as soon as the phrase had escaped him he had a sense of its grotesqueness.  Home!  Yes, he had to admit that he felt a certain affection for that huddled room which had witnessed so much spiritual travail.  Somehow its dusty rafters seemed saturated with a human quality, as if they had imprisoned all the perverse longings and bitter griefs of the company that once sat in the dim lamplight and chanted their litany of hate.  He never really had been a part of this company ... he never really had been a part of any company.  At the office of Ford, Wetherbee & Co., at Fairview, at Storch’s gatherings, he had mingled with his fellow-men amiably or tolerantly or contemptuously, as the case might be, but never with sympathy or understanding.  He knew now the reason—­he always had judged them, even to the last moment, using the uncompromising foot rule of prejudice, inherent or acquired.  In the old days he had thought of these prejudices as standards, mistaking aversions for principles.  He had tricked his loves, his hates, his preferences in a masquerade of pretenses ... he had labels for everybody and he pigeonholed them with the utmost promptitude.  A man was a murderer or a saint or a bricklayer, and he was nothing else.  But at this moment, standing in the light-flooded entrance to Ginger’s lodgings, waiting for Storch to lead him back to his figurative cell, he knew that a man could be a murderer and a saint and a bricklayer and a thousand other things besides.  And if he were to sit again about that round table of violence and despair he felt that, while he might find much to stir hatred, he would never again give scope to contempt.

“You want to go home, eh?” Storch was repeating, almost with a note of obscene mirth.  “Well, our walk has been quieting, at all events.”