elusive, intangible, but all-powerful.  The moment he had arrived within the city limits he had felt the first trace of its presence.  As he approached the centre of congestion it had deepened, had become more and more a guiding influence.  Since then, by day or by night, wherever he went, augmenting or diminishing, it was constantly with him.  And it was not with him alone.  Every human being with whom he came in contact was likewise consciously or unconsciously under the spell.  The crowds he had passed on the streets were unthinkingly answering its guidance.  The trolley cars echoed its voice.  It was the spirit of unrest—­a thing ubiquitous and all-penetrating as the air that filled their lungs—­a subtle stimulant that they took in with every breath.

Ben Blair arose and put on his hat.  He had been sitting only a few minutes, but he felt that he could not longer bear the inactivity.  To do so meant to think; and thought was the thing that to-night he was attempting to avoid.  Moreover, for one of the few times in his life he could remember he was desperately lonely.  It seemed to him that nowhere within a thousand miles was another of his own kind.  Instinctively he craved relief, and that alleviation could come in but one way,—­through physical activity.  Again he sought the street.

To some persons a great relief from loneliness is found in mingling with a crowd, even though it be of strangers; but Ben was not like these.  His desire was to be away as far as possible from the maddening drone.  Boarding a street car, he rode out into the residence section, clear to the end of the loop; then, alighting, he started to walk back.  A full moon had arisen, and outside the shadow-blots of trees and buildings the earth was all alight.  The asphalt of the pavements and the cement of the walks glistened white under its rays.  Loth to sacrifice the comparative out-of-door coolness for the heat within, practically every house had its group on the doorsteps, or scattered upon the narrow lawns.  Accustomed to magnificent distances, to boundless miles of surrounding country, to privacy absolute, Ben watched this scene with a return of the old wonder,—­the old feeling of isolation, of separateness.  Side by side, young men and women, obviously lovers, kept their places, indifferent to his observation.  Other couples, still more careless, sat with circling arms and faces close together, returning his gaze impassively.  Nothing, apparently, in the complex gamut of human nature was sacred to these folk.  To the solitary spectator, the revelation was more depressing than even the down-town unrest; and he hurried on.

Further ahead he came to the homes of the wealthy,—­great piles of stone and brick, that seemed more like hotels than residences.  The forbidding darkness of many of the houses testified that their owners were out of town, at the seaside or among the mountains; but others were brilliantly lighted from basement to roof.  Before one a long line of carriages was drawn up.  Stiffly liveried footmen, impassive as automatons, waited the erratic pleasure of their masters.  A little group of spectators was already gathered, and Ben likewise paused, observing the spectacle curiously.