“You can’t change human nature, Mr. Shivers,” Edward would insist in his precise but ineffectual manner.  “We all want property, you would accept a fortune if it was offered to you, and so should I. Americans will never become socialists.”

“But look at me, wasn’t I born in Meriden, Connecticut?  Ain’t that Yankee enough for you?” Thus Mr. Shivers sought blandly to confound him.

A Yankee Shades of the Pilgrim fathers, of seven, generations of Bumpuses!  A Yankee who used his hands in that way, a Yankee with a nose like that, a Yankee with a bald swathe down the middle of his crown and bunches of black, moth-eaten hair on either side!  But Edward, too polite to descend to personalities, was silent....

In brief, this very politeness of Edward’s, which his ancestors would have scorned, this consideration and lack of self-assertion made him the favourite prey of the many “characters” in Fillmore Street whose sanity had been disturbed by pressure from above, in whose systems had lodged the germs of those exotic social doctrines floating so freely in the air of our modern industrial communities ....  Chester Glenn remains for a passing mention.  A Yankee of Yankees, this, born on a New Hampshire farm, and to the ordinary traveller on the Wigmore branch of the railroad just a good-natured, round-faced, tobacco-chewing brakeman who would take a seat beside ladies of his acquaintance aid make himself agreeable until it was time to rise and bawl out, in the approved manner of his profession, the name of the next station.  Fillmore Street knew that the flat visored cap which his corporation compelled him to wear covered a brain into which had penetrated the maggot of the Single Tax.  When he encountered Mr. Shivers or Auermann the talk became coruscating..

Eda Rawle, Janet’s solitary friend of these days, must also be mentioned, though the friendship was merely an episode in Janet’s life.  Their first meeting was at Grady’s quick-lunch counter in Faber Street, which they both frequented at one time, and the fact that each had ordered a ham sandwich, a cup of coffee, and a confection—­new to Grady’s—­known as a Napoleon had led to conversation.

Eda, of course, was the aggressor; she was irresistibly drawn, she would not be repulsed.  A stenographer in the Wessex National Bank, she boarded with a Welsh family in Spruce Street; matter-of-fact, plodding, commonplace, resembling—­as Janet thought—­a horse, possessing, indeed many of the noble qualities of that animal, she might have been thought the last person in the world to discern and appreciate in Janet the hidden elements of a mysterious fire.  In appearance Miss Rawle was of a type not infrequent in Anglo-Saxon lands, strikingly blonde, with high malar bones, white eyelashes, and eyes of a metallic blue, cheeks of an amazing elasticity that worked rather painfully as she talked or smiled, drawing back inadequate lips, revealing long, white teeth and vivid gums.  It was the craving in her for romance Janet assuaged; Eda’s was the love content to pour out, that demands little.  She was capable of immolation.  Janet was by no means ungrateful for the warmth of such affection, though in moments conscious of a certain perplexity and sadness because she was able to give such a meagre return for the wealth of its offering.