He was thoroughly disgusted with newspaper work this morning, disgusted with the line, disgusted with hopeful efforts to uplift the people.  What did his Post work really amount to?—­unremitting toil, the ceaseless forcing up of immature and insincere opinions, no thanks or appreciation anywhere, and at the end the designation of the Plonny Neal organ.  What did the uplift amount to?  Could progress really ever be forced a single inch?  And why should he wear out his life in the selfless service of those who, it seemed, acknowledged no obligation to him?  As for public life, if this was a sample, the less he saw of it the better.  He would take anything in the world sooner than a career of hypocrisy, double-dealing and treachery, of dirty looting in the name of the public good, of degrading traffic with a crew of liars and confidence men.

But through all the young man’s indignation and resentment there ran an unsteadying doubt, a miserable doubt of himself.  Had his motives in the reformatory matter been as absolutely spotless as he had charmed himself into believing?...  What manner of man was he?  Did he really have any permanent convictions about anything?...  Was it possible, was it thinkable or conceivable, that he was a complaisant invertebrate whom the last strong man that had his ear could play upon like a flute?

West passed a most unhappy morning.  But at lunch, at the club, it was his portion to have his buoyant good-humor completely restored to him.  He fell in with ancient boon companions; they made much of him; involved him in gay talk; smoothed him down, patted him on the head, found his self-esteem for him, and handed it over in its pristine vigor.  Before he had sat half an hour at the merry table, he could look back at his profound depression of the morning with smiling wonder.  Where in the world had he gotten his terrible grouch?  Not a thing in the world had happened, except that the mayoralty was not going to be handed to him on a large silver platter.  Was that such a fearful loss after all?  On the contrary, was it not rather a good riddance?  Being Mayor, in all human probability, would be a horrible bore.

It was a mild, azure, zephyrous day; spring at her brightest and best.  West, descending the club steps, sniffed the fragrant air affectionately, and was hanged if he would go near the office on such an afternoon.  Let the Post readers plod along to-morrow with an editorial page both skimpy and inferior; anything he gave them would still be too good for them, middle-class drabs and dullards that they were.

The big red automobile was old now, and needed paint, but it still ran staunch and true; and Miss Avery had a face, a form, and a sinuous graceful manner, had veils and hats and sinuous graceful coats, that would have glorified a far less worthy vehicle.  And she drove divinely.  By invitation she took the wheel that afternoon, and with sure, clever hands whipped the docile leviathan over the hills and far away.