down in the crowd and watched you with--well, not with confidence. The
more dazzling the front you presented, the higher your facade rose, the
more I expected to see a big crack zigzagging from top to bottom,"--he
indicated its course in the air with his forefinger,--"then a crash and
clouds of dust. It was curious. I had such a clear picture of it. And
another curious thing, Bartley," Wilson spoke with deliberateness and
settled deeper into his chair, "is that I don't feel it any longer. I am
sure of you."

Alexander laughed. "Nonsense! It's not I you feel sure of; it's
Winifred. People often make that mistake."

"No, I'm serious, Alexander. You've changed. You have decided to leave
some birds in the bushes. You used to want them all."

Alexander's chair creaked. "I still want a good many," he said rather
gloomily. "After all, life doesn't offer a man much. You work like the
devil and think you're getting on, and suddenly you discover that you've
only been getting yourself tied up. A million details drink you dry.
Your life keeps going for things you don't want, and all the while
you are being built alive into a social structure you don't care a rap
about. I sometimes wonder what sort of chap I'd have been if I hadn't
been this sort; I want to go and live out his potentialities, too. I
haven't forgotten that there are birds in the bushes."

Bartley stopped and sat frowning into the fire, his shoulders thrust
forward as if he were about to spring at something. Wilson watched him,
wondering. His old pupil always stimulated him at first, and then vastly
wearied him. The machinery was always pounding away in this man, and
Wilson preferred companions of a more reflective habit of mind. He could