finds oneself a little aged."

She nodded.

"You look like that," she said. "You look as though a good many of the
fires had burned out, and left you--well, something of a machine. Is it
worth while?"

"I don't know," he answered listlessly.

"You ought to go to Europe more often," she said softly. "I do not
understand how men can make the slaves of themselves that you do here.
Don't you long sometimes to feel your feet off the treadmill?"

"Perhaps," he answered; "but the life here becomes like one of those
pernicious habits of cigarette smoking, or morphia taking. It grips hold
of you--grips hold very tight," he added in a lower tone.

"I wonder," she said, "whether there is anything in the world which
would tempt you to break away from it."

He struck the desk at which he was sitting, suddenly, with his clenched
fist. His face was still colourless, but his black eyes held a touch
of fire.

"Don't!" he said. "I am not such a slave, after all, as to love my
chains; but don't you understand that one gets into this morass, and one
can keep a foothold only by struggling."

"Is that how it is with you, Norris?" she asked.