are countless thousands of homeless drifters floating around on this
teeming island in vans, with no place to land."

"Try Jersey. Or Brooklyn," was her hopeful suggestion.


"'And bade betwixt their shores to be
The unplumb'd, salt, estranging sea,'"


he quoted with dramatic intonation, adding helpfully: "Matthew Arnold.
Or is it Arnold Bennett? Anyway, think how far away those places are,"
he pleaded. "From you!" he concluded.

A little decided frown crept between her eyebrows. "I've accepted you as
a gentleman on trust," she began, when he broke in:

"Don't do it. It's a fearfully depressing thing to be reminded that
you're a gentleman on trust and expected to live up to it. Think how it
cramps one's style, not to mention limiting one's choice of real estate.
A gentleman may stake his future happiness and his hope of a home on the
toss of a coin, but he mustn't presume to want to see the other party to
the gamble again, even if she's the only thing in the whole sweep of his
horizon worth seeing. Is that fair? Where is Eternal Justice, I ask you,
when such things--"

"Oh, do stop!" she implored. "I don't think you're sane."

"No such claim is put forth on behalf of the accused. He confesses to
complete loss of mental equilibrium since--let me see--since 11.15 A.M."