He earnestly hoped to find Reginald at home, though it was well nigh ten o’clock in the evening, and he cursed the “rapid transit” for its inability to annihilate space and time.  It is indeed disconcerting to think how many months, if not years, of our earthly sojourn the dwellers in cities spend in transportation conveyances that must be set down as a dead loss in the ledger of life.  A nervous impatience against things material overcame Ernest in the subway.  It is ever the mere stupid obstacle of matter that weights down the wings of the soul and prevents it from soaring upward to the sun.

When at last he had reached the house, he learned from the hall-boy that Clarke had gone out.  Ruffled in temper he entered his rooms and went over his mail.  There were letters from editors with commissions that he could not afford to reject.  Everywhere newspapers and magazines opened their yawning mouths to swallow up what time he had.  He realised at once that he would have to postpone the writing of his novel for several weeks, if not longer.

Among the letters was one from Jack.  It bore the postmark of a little place in the Adirondacks where he was staying with his parents.  Ernest opened the missive not without hesitation.  On reading and rereading it the fine lines on his forehead, that would some day deepen into wrinkles, became quite pronounced and a look of displeasure darkened his face.  Something was wrong with Jack, a slight change that defied analysis.  Their souls were out of tune.  It might only be a passing disturbance; perhaps it was his own fault.  It pained him, nevertheless.  Somehow it seemed of late that Jack was no longer able to follow the vagaries of his mind.  Only one person in the world possessed a similar mental vision, only one seemed to understand what he said and what he left unsaid.  Reginald Clarke, being a man and poet, read in his soul as in an open book.  Ethel might have understood, had not love, like a cloud, laid itself between her eyes and the page.

It was with exultation that Ernest heard near midnight the click of Reginald’s key in the door.  He found him unchanged, completely, radiantly himself.  Reginald possessed the psychic power of undressing the soul, of seeing it before him in primal nakedness.  Although no word was said of Ethel Brandenbourg except the mere mention of her presence in Atlantic City, Ernest intuitively knew that Reginald was aware of the transformation that absence had wrought in him.  In the presence of this man he could be absolutely himself, without shame or fear of mis-understanding; and by a strange metamorphosis, all his affection for Ethel and Jack went out for the time being to Reginald Clarke.

XVII