“Why don’t you bring home a bottle of tonic from the store, Willy,” she said, one evening when he had been feverishly running through the city newspaper.  He put the paper aside hastily.

“Tonic!” he said.  “Why, I’m all right, mother.  Anyhow, I wouldn’t take any of that stuff.”  He caught her eye and looked away.  “It takes a little time to get settled again, that’s all, mother.”

“The Young People’s Society is having an entertainment at the church to-night, Willy.”

“Well, maybe I’ll go,” he agreed to her unspoken suggestion.  “If you insist on making me a society man—­”

But some time later he came downstairs with a book.

“Thought I’d rather read,” he explained.  “Got a book here on the history of steel.  Talk about romances!  Let me read some of it to you.  You sit there and close your eyes and just listen to this:  ‘The first Cardew furnace was built in 1868.  At that time—­’”

Some time later he glanced up.  His mother was quietly sleeping, her hands folded in her lap.  He closed the book and sat there, fighting again his patient battle with himself.  The book on his knee seemed to symbolize the gulf between Lily Cardew and himself.  But the real gulf, the unbridgeable chasm, between Lily and himself, was neither social nor financial.

“As if that counted, in America,” he reflected scornfully.

No.  It was not that.  The war had temporarily broken down the old social barriers.  Some of them would never be erected again, although it was the tendency of civilization for men to divide themselves, rather than to be divided, into the high, the middle and the low.  But in his generation young Cameron knew that there would be no uncrossable bridge between old Anthony’s granddaughter and himself, were it not for one thing.

She did not love him.  It hurt his pride to realize that she had never thought of him in any terms but that of a pleasant comradeship.  Hardly even as a man.  Men fought, in war time.  They did not fry doughnuts and write letters home for the illiterate.  Any one of those boys in the ranks was a better man than he was.  All this talk about a man’s soul being greater than his body, that was rot.  A man was as good as the weakest part of him, and no more.

His sensitive face in the lamplight was etched with lines of tragedy.  He put the book on the table, and suddenly flinging his arms across it, dropped his head on them.  The slight movement wakened his mother.

“Why, Willy!” she said.

After a moment he looked up.  “I was almost asleep,” he explained, more to protect her than himself.  “I—­I wish that fool Nelson kid would break his mandolin—­or his neck,” he said irritably.  He kissed her and went upstairs.  From across the quiet street there came thin, plaintive, occasionally inaccurate, the strains of the long, long trail.