it drew near a feeling of cowardice so possessed him that he wanted to
go away, go anywhere and hide until it was over, go where he could not
see what it meant to others? It was humanity's home-time, and he had
no home. Why--

"An ass that brays is wiser than the man who asks what can't be
answered," he said, under his breath. "For the love of Heaven, quit
it! Why-ing in a man is as inexcusable as whining in a woman. There's
my car--crowded, of course!"

For some minutes longer he waited for a car on which there was chance
to get a foothold, then, buttoning his overcoat, put his hands in his
pockets and began the walk to his club. The season had been mild so
far, but a change was coming, and the two days left for Christmas
shopping would doubtless be stormy ones. On the whole, it might be
fortunate. There was a good deal of nonsense in this curious custom of
once a year getting on a giving jag, which was about what Christmas
had degenerated into, and if something could prevent the dementia that
possessed many people at this season it should be welcomed. It had
often puzzled him, the behavior of the human family at this so-called
Christian holiday in which tired people were overworked, poor people
bought what they couldn't afford, and the rich gave unneeded things to
the rich and were given unwanted ones in return. The hands of all
people--all places--had become outstretched. It wasn't the giving of
money that mattered. But what did matter was the hugeness of the habit
which was commercializing a custom whose origin was very far removed
from the spirit of the day.

With a shrug of his shoulders he shoved his hands deeper down into
his pockets. "Quit again," he said, half aloud. "What do you know of