"Oh,  they  ain't  in  the  hotel  this  year,"  the  clerk
answered  nonchalantly.  "  They've  rented  the  big  Peters
cottage  up  around  Parker's  Point."

As  Jack  went  home  he  made  a  detour  by  way  of  the
shore  road.  When  he  reached  the  summit  of  a  little  hill
that  shelved  off  gradually  into  the  water,  he  noticed  the
dark  lines  of  a  schooner  yacht,  its  night  lights  burning
dimly  in  the  damp  air.  The  Peters  cottage  on  the  crest
of  the  hill  was  well  lighted,  and  as  he  lingered  he  heard
the  tinkle  of  a  piano,  now  soft,  now  loud,  as  though
played  by  an  idle  hand  in  the  interludes  of  desultory
talk.
He  walked  on  between  the  bayberry-scented  thickets
in  the  still  night,  realizing  dimly  some  of  the  social  facts
of  life  which  had  seemed  so  grotesque  in  Pancoast  Lane.
This  gayly  lighted  cottage  was  a  territory  as  much  be
yond  his  reach  as  the  Shah  of  Persia's  palace.  He  did
not  know  that  he  wanted  to  reach  it  especially.  But  he
resented  the  fact  that  he  was  kept  within  the  territory  of


54  THE  REAL  WOULD

the  clerk  and  the  housekeepers  and  the  waitresses,  that
his  was  the  back  door  entrance  upon  life.  In  a  way  the
cottage  realm  was  no  more  real  than  the  servants'  table
realm,  but  for  the  first  time  he  was  conscious  of  a  desire
to  pick,  to  choose  his  world,  not  to  have  it  thrust  upon
him  in  the  careless  revolutions  of  fate.
