"No, that is an auditory delusion. Not even two clocks beat in unison. There is always a discrepancy, infinitesimal, perhaps, but a discrepancy
nevertheless." A sharp ring of the bell interrupted the conversation. A moment later a
curly head peeped through the door. "Hello, Ernest! How are you, old man?" the intruder cried, with a laugh
in his voice. Then, noticing Clarke, he shook hands with the great man
unceremoniously, with the nonchalance of the healthy young animal bred
in the atmosphere of an American college. His touch seemed to thrill Clarke, who breathed heavily and then stepped
to the window, as if to conceal the flush of vitality on his cheek. It was a breath of springtide that Jack had brought with him. Youth is a
Prince Charming. To shrivelled veins the pressure of his hand imparts a
spark of animation, and middle age unfolds its petals in his presence,
as a sunflower gazing at late noon once more upon its lord. "I have come to take Ernest away from you," said Jack. "He looks a
trifle paler than usual, and a day's outing will stir the red corpuscles
in his blood." "I have no doubt that you will take very good care of him," Reginald
replied. "Where shall we go?" Ernest asked, absent-mindedly. But he did not hear the answer, for Reginald's scepticisms had more
deeply impressed him than he cared to confess to himself. VII


The two boys had bathed their souls in the sea-breeze, and their eyes in
light. The tide of pleasure-loving humanity jostling against them had carried
their feet to the "Lion Palace." From there, seated at table and
quenching their thirst with high-balls, they watched the feverish
palpitations of the city's life-blood pulsating in the veins of Coney
Island, to which they had drifted from Brighton Beach. Ernest blew thoughtful rings of smoke into the air. "Do you notice the ferocious look in the mien of the average frequenter
of this island resort?" he said to Jack, whose eyes, following the
impulse of his more robust youth, were examining specimens of feminine
flotsam on the waves of the crowd. "It is," he continued, speaking to himself for want of an audience,
"the American who is in for having a 'good time.' And he is going to get
it. Like a huntsman, he follows the scent of happiness; but I warrant
that always it eludes him. Perhaps his mad race is only the epitome of
humanity's vain pursuit of pleasure, the eternal cry that is never
answered." But Jack was not listening. There are times in the life of every man
when a petticoat is more attractive to him than all the philosophy of
the world. Ernest was a little hurt, and it was not without some silent
remonstrance that he acquiesced when Jack invited to their table two
creatures that once were women. "Why?" "But they are interesting." "I cannot find so." They both had seen better times--of course. Then money losses came, with
work in shop or factory, and the voice of the tempter in the commercial
wilderness. One, a frail nervous little creature, who had instinctively chosen a
seat at Ernest's side, kept prattling in his ear, ready to tell the
story of her life to any one who was willing to treat her to a drink. Something in her demeanour interested him. "And then I had a stroke of luck. The manager of a vaudeville was my
friend and decided to give me a trial. He thought I had a voice. They
called me Betsy, the Hyacinth Girl. At first it seemed as if people
liked to hear me. But I suppose that was because I was new. After a
month or two they discharged me." "And why?" "I suppose I was just used up, that's all." "Frightful!" "I never had much of a voice--and the tobacco smoke--and the wine--I
love wine." She gulped down her glass. "And do you like your present occupation?" "Why not? Am I not young? Am I not pretty?" This she said not parrotwise, but with a simple coquettishness that was
all her own. On the way to the steamer a few moments later, Ernest asked,
half-reproachfully: "Jack--and you really enjoyed this conversation?" "Didn't you?" "Do you mean this?" "Why, yes; she was--very agreeable." Ernest frowned. "We're twenty, Ernest. And then, you see, it's like a course in
sociology. Susie--"

"Susie, was that her name?" "Yes." "So she had a name?" "Of course." "She shouldn't. It should be a number." "They may not be pillars of society; still, they're human." "Yes," said Ernest, "that is the most horrible part of it." VIII


The moon was shining brightly. Swift and sure the prow of the night-boat parted the silvery foam. The smell of young flesh. Peals of laughter. A breathless pianola. The
tripping of dancing-feet. Voices husked with drink and voices soft with
love. The shrill accents of vulgarity. Hustling waiters. Shop-girls. Bourgeois couples. Tired families of four and upward. Sleeping children. A boy selling candy. The crying of babies. The two friends were sitting on the upper deck, muffled in their long
rain-coats. In the distance the Empire City rose radiant from the mist. "Say, Ernest, you should spout some poetry as of old. Are your lips
stricken mute, or are you still thinking of Coney Island?" "Oh, no, the swift wind has taken it away. I am clean, I am pure. Life
has passed me. It has kissed me, but it has left no trace." He looked upon the face of his friend. Their hands met. They felt, with
keen enjoyment, the beauty of the night, of their friendship, and of the
city beyond. Then Ernest's lips moved softly, musically, twitching with a strange
ascetic passion that trembled in his voice as he began:

  _"Huge steel-ribbed monsters rise into the air
     Her Babylonian towers, while on high,
     Like gilt-scaled serpents, glide the swift trains by,
   Or, underfoot, creep to their secret lair. A thousand lights are jewels in her hair,
     The sea her girdle, and her crown the sky;
     Her life-blood throbs, the fevered pulses fly. Immense, defiant, breathless she stands there. "And ever listens in the ceaseless din,
     Waiting for him, her lover, who shall come,
       Whose singing lips shall boldly claim their own,
     And render sonant what in her was dumb,
   The splendour, and the madness, and the sin,
       Her dreams in iron and her thoughts of stone. "_

He paused. The boat glided on. For a long time neither spoke a word. After a while Jack broke the silence: "And are you dreaming of becoming
the lyric mouth of the city, of giving utterance to all its yearnings,
its 'dreams in iron and its thoughts of stone'?" "No," replied Ernest, simply, "not yet. It is strange to what
impressions the brain will respond. In Clarke's house, in the midst of
inspiring things, inspiration failed me. But while I was with that girl
an idea came to me--an idea, big, real." "Will it deal with her?" Ernest smiled: "Oh, no. She personally has nothing to do with it. At
least not directly. It was the commotion of blood and--brain. The
air--the change. I don't know what." "What will it be?" asked Jack, with interest all alert. "A play, a wonderful play.