“No doubt, Lane.  You fellows who went away left us to make the best of it.”

“Yes, Smith, we fellows ‘went away,’” replied Lane, with satire, “and I’m finding out the fact wasn’t greatly appreciated.  Good day.”

On the way out the little office girl opened the door for him and ogled him again, and stood a moment on the threshold.  Ponderingly, Lane made his way down to the street.  A rush of cool spring air seemed to refresh him, and with it came a realization that he never would have been able to stay cooped up in Manton’s place.  Even if his services had been greatly desired he could not have given them for long.  He could not have stood that place.  This was a new phase of his mental condition.  Work almost anywhere in Middleville would be like that in Manton’s.  Could he stand work at all, not only in a physical sense, but in application of mind?  He began to worry about that.

Some one hailed Lane, and he turned to recognize an old acquaintance—­Matt Jones.  They walked along the street together, meeting other men who knew Lane, some of whom greeted him heartily.  Then, during an ensuing hour, he went into familiar stores and the postoffice, the hotel and finally the Bradford Inn, meeting many people whom he had known well.  The sum of all their greetings left him in cold amaze.  At length Lane grasped the subtle import—­that people were tired of any one or anything which reminded them of the war.  He tried to drive that thought from lodgment in his mind.  But it stuck.  And slowly he gathered the forces of his spirit to make good the resolve with which he had faced this day—­to withstand an appalling truth.

At the inn he sat before an open fire and pondered between brief conversations of men who accosted him.  On the one hand it was extremely trying, and on the other a fascinating and grim study—­to meet people, and find that he could read their minds.  Had the war given him some magic sixth sense, some clairvoyant power, some gift of vision?  He could not tell yet what had come to him, but there was something.

Business men, halting to chat with Lane a few moments, helped along his readjustment to the truth of the strange present.  Almost all kinds of business were booming.  Most people had money to spend.  And there was a multitude, made rich by the war, who were throwing money to the four winds.  Prices of every commodity were at their highest peak, and supply could not equal demand.  An orgy of spending was in full swing, and all men in business, especially the profiteers, were making the most of the unprecedented opportunity.

After he had rested, Lane boarded a street car and rode out to the suburbs of Middleville where the Maynards lived.  Although they had lost their money they still lived in the substantial mansion that was all which was left them of prosperous days.  House and grounds now appeared sadly run down.

A maid answered Lane’s ring, and let him in.  Lane found himself rather nervously expecting to see Mrs. Maynard.  The old house brought back to him the fact that he had never liked her.  But he wanted to see Margaret.  It turned out, however, that mother and daughter were out.