which they spring. That is not to say that the philosophies of which
they are the expressions are true. Nor is it to admit that such a
literature is characteristic of the spirit of America, and can be applied
without change to our life and atmosphere. We have yet, I believe, to
develop our own literature; which will come gradually as we find
ourselves."

"Find ourselves?" she repeated.

"Yes. Isn't that what we are trying to do? We are not determinists or
fatalists, and to condemn us to such a philosophy would be to destroy us.
We live on hope. In spite of our apparent materialism, we are idealists.
And is it not possible to regard nature as governed by laws--remorseless,
if you like the word--and yet believe, with Kant and Goethe, that there
is an inner realm? You yourself struggle--you cling to ideals."

"Ideals!" she echoed. "Ideals are useless unless one is able to see, to
feel something beyond this ruthless mechanism by which we are surrounded
and hemmed in, to have some perception of another scheme. Why struggle,
unless we struggle for something definite? Oh, I don't mean heavenly
rewards. Nothing could be more insipid and senseless than the orthodox
view of the hereafter. I am talking about a scheme of life here and
now."

"So am I," answered Hodder. "But may there not be a meaning in this very
desire we have to struggle against the order of things as it appears to
us?"

"A meaning?"