He had done many things in his mad years of prosperity—­the mistakes, the faults of youth.  But Billy Garrison was right when he said he was square.  He never threw a race in his life.  Horseflesh, the “game,” was sacred to him.  He had gone wild, but never crooked.  But the world now said otherwise, and it is only the knave, the saint, and the fool who never heed what the world says.

And so at twenty-two, when the average young man is leaving college for the real taste of life, little Garrison had drained it to the dregs; the lees tasted bitter in his mouth.

For obvious reasons Garrison had not chosen his usual haven, the smoking-car, on the train.  It was filled to overflowing from the Aqueduct track, and he knew that his name would be mentioned frequently and in no complimentary manner.  His soul had been stripped bare, sensitive to a breath.  It would writhe under the mild compassion of a former admirer as much as it would under the open jibes of his enemies.  He had plenty of enemies.  Every “is,” “has-been,” “would-be,” “will-be” has enemies.  It is well they have.  Nothing is lost in nature.  Enemies make you; not your friends.

Garrison had selected a car next to the smoker and occupied a seat at the forward end, his back to the engine.  His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders hunched, his eyes staring straight ahead under the brim of his slouch-hat.  His eyes were looking inward, not outward; they did not see his surroundings; they were looking in on the ruin of his life.

The present, the future, did not exist; only the past lived—­lived with all the animalism of a rank growth.  He was too far in the depths to even think of reerecting his life’s structure.  His cough was troubling him; his brain throbbing, throbbing.

Then, imperceptibly, as Garrison’s staring, blank eyes slowly turned from within to without, occasioned by a violent jolt of the train, something flashed across their retina; they became focused, and a message was wired to his brain.  Instantly his eyes dropped, and he fidgeted uncomfortably in his seat.

He found he had been staring into a pair of slate-gray eyes; staring long, rudely, without knowing it.  Their owner was occupying a seat three removed down the aisle.  As he was seated with his back to the engine, he was thus confronting them.

She was a young girl with indefinite hair, white skin coated with tan, and a very steady gaze.  She would always be remembered for her eyes.  Garrison instantly decided that they were beautiful.  He furtively peered up from under his hat.  She was still looking at him fixedly without the slightest embarrassment.

Garrison was not susceptible to the eternal feminine.  He was old with a boy’s face.  Yet he found himself taking snap-shots at the girl opposite.  She was reading now.  Unwittingly he tried to criticize every feature.  He could not.  It was true that they were far from being regular; her nose went up like her short upper lip; her chin and under lip said that she had a temper and a will of her own.  He noted also that she had a mole under her left eye.  But one always returned from the facial peregrinations to her eyes.  After a long stare Garrison caught himself wishing that he could kiss those eyes.  That threw him into a panic.