And the fourth wall . . .

* * * * *

The blackness dropped deeper about him, and within him.  There they were dancing, those idiots, dancing on a volcano if ever human beings did, in the little sultry respite from the tornado which was called the world-peace.  Well, that was less idiotic than working, at least.  How soon before it would break again, the final destructive hurricane, born of nothing but the malignant folly of human hearts, and sweep away all that they now agonized and sweated to keep?  What silly weakness to spend the respite in anything but getting as much of what you wanted as you could, before it was all gone in the big final smash-up, and the yellow or black man were on top.

* * * * *

With a bitter relish he felt sunk deep in one of his rank reactions against life and human beings.  Now at least he was on bed-rock.  There was a certain hard, quiet restfulness in scorning it all so whole-heartedly as either stupid or base.

* * * * *

At this a woman’s face hung suddenly there in the blackness.  Her long eyes seemed to look directly into his, a full revealing look such as they had never given him in reality.  His hard quiet was broken by an agitation he could not control.  No, no, there was something there that was not mud.  He had thought he would live and die without meeting it.  And there it was, giving to paltry life a meaning, after all, a troubling and immortal meaning.

A frosty breath blew down upon him from the mountains.  A long shudder ran through him.

The sensation moved him to a sweeping change of mood, to a furious resentment as at an indignity.  God!  What was he doing?  Who was this moping in the dark like a boy?

* * * * *

The great night stood huge and breathless above him as before, but now he saw only the lamp-lit house, tiny as an insect, but vibrant with eager and joyous life.  With a strong, resolute step he went rapidly back to the door, opened it wide, stepped in, and walked across the floor to Marise Crittenden.  “You’re going to dance the next dance with me, you know,” he told her.

CHAPTER X

AT THE MILL

I

An Afternoon in the Life of Mr. Neale Crittenden, aet. 38

May 27.

The stenographer, a pale, thin boy, with a scarred face, and very white hands, limped over to the manager’s desk with a pile of letters to be signed.  “There, Captain Crittenden,” he said, pride in his accent.

Neale was surprised and pleased.  “All done, Arthur?” He looked over the work hastily.  “Good work, good work.”  He leaned back, looking up at the other.  “How about it, anyhow, Arthur?  Is it going to work out all right?”