He threw up the sash. A deep, monotonous roar, almost like the incoming
tide of the sea, fell upon their ears.

"You hear it," he said. "That is life, that rolling of wheels, the
falling of a thousand footsteps upon the pavement, men and women going
to their pleasures, the outcasts and the parasites bearing them company.
It is like the sea. It is always there. It is the everbeating pulse of
humanity."

He closed the window and led her to an easy chair.

"Cissy," he said, "do you know, this is what we always talked of, that I
should write a story and read it first to you? Do you remember?"

"Yes," she answered softly, "I remember."

"We didn't anticipate this." He looked around. "Don't judge me
altogether by my surroundings. To tell you the truth, when I started I
went too much to the other extreme. I discovered I had made a mistake,
so I sold up and found myself in debt. I am earning plenty of money,
but I have to economise to get clear. This novel is going to set me
straight."

He took some loose pages up in his hand. She looked over his shoulder.

"You haven't improved a bit in your writing," she exclaimed. "Do let me
type it for you."

"You shall, with pleasure," he answered. "I believe you're the only