Miss Hitchcock looked nonplussed.


"Life is based on getting something others haven't,--as much of it as you
can and as fast as you can. I never felt that so constantly as I have the
last few months. Do you think," he went on hastily, "that Lindsay, that any
doctor, can _earn_ fifty thousand a year?"

"I don't know. I hate views." Her voice sounded weary and defeated.

Sommers rose to his feet, exclaiming, "I thought there were some pretty
definite ones, this evening."

Miss Hitchcock started, but refused to take the challenge.

They faced each other for a moment without speaking. Sommers could see that
his blundering words had placed him in a worse position than before. At the
same time he was aware that he regretted it; that "views" were
comparatively unimportant to a young woman; and that this woman, at least,
was far better than views.

"Good night," she murmured, lowering her eyes as she gave him her hand. He
hesitated a moment, searching for an intelligent word, but finally he
turned away without any further attempt to explain himself.

It was good to be out in the soft March night, to feel once more the free
streets, which alone carry the atmosphere of unprivileged humanity. The
mood of the evening was doubtless foolish, boyish, but it was none the less
keen and convincing. He had never before had the inner, unknown elements of
his nature so stirred; had never felt this blind, raging protest.