The Iron Bar 397 XVIII. I'm almost sorry your suspicions are unfounded, if your father in any way resembled you, my youngster. ” “I wish you would use my Christian name,” he said. “Life—things—I don’t think her prospects now—Hopeful outlook. I was the black sheep, I was hurried out of the way. He was unaware that his illness had opened the way to the inherent conscience and that the acquired had been temporarily blanketed, or that there was any ancient fanaticalism in his blood. Its very calmness was frightful. She has given herself up to social work. Another car followed, a rusty Cadillac sedan full of kids. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. The Semitic looking young man opposite, who seems to have been committing you to memory piecemeal, will tell you that he was never so bored in all his life as he has been here. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe. Each became frightfully aware of the other as a plastic energetic body, of the strong muscles of neck against cheek, of hands gripping shoulder-blade and waist.
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