He caught only a part of Mrs. Crittenden's answer, which she gave,
lightly laughing, as though she did not wish to admit that Vincent could
be so serious as he sounded. The only part he really heard was when she
ended, ". . . oh, if we are ever going to succeed in forcing order on the
natural disorder of the world, it's going to take everybody's shoulder
to the wheel. Women can't stay ornamental and leisurely, and elegant,
nor even always nice to look at."

Mr. Welles, amazed at the straining effort he needed to put forth to
manage that swing which Mrs. Crittenden did so easily, took less than
his usual small interest in the line of talk which Vincent was so fond
of springing on their neighbor. He heard him say, with his air of always
stating a foregone conclusion, something so admitted that it needed no
emphasis, "It's Haroldbellwrightism, pure and simple, to imagine that
anything you can ever do, that anybody can ever do, will help bring
about the kind of order _you're_ talking about, order for everybody. The
only kind of order there ever will be, is what you get when you grab a
little of what you want out of the chaos, for your own self, while
there's still time, and hold on to it. That's the only way to get
anywhere for yourself. And as for doing something for other people, the
only satisfaction you can give anybody is in beauty."

Mr. Welles swam out of the breakers into clear water. Suddenly he caught
the knack of the upward swing, and had the immense satisfaction of
bringing the mattock down squarely, buried to the head in the earth.

"There!" he said proudly to Mrs. Crittenden, "how's that for fine?"

He looked up at her, wiping the sweat from his forehead. He wondered for