In the street Charles remembered a small niece whom he had not thought of for a long time. Brother's kid. I'll send her something. His brother was a poor man working on a small salary. Charles wanted to do something generous that would help him to think well of himself. God, what a fool I am! He walked along briskly with his hat off, looking insolent and debonair. When an acquaintance passed in a motor car a jovial greeting was exchanged. To make himself oblivious to the resentment which was in the memory of Julia, Charles dwelt elaborately on the memory of other women. Blanche, damn her! I'll have to go and see her again. One hand around the old boy's neck and the other in his pocket. He tried to keep away from the center toward which his thoughts converged. What price life! Hell! (In the depths of me, this awful despair. Horror, horror, horror. Something clutched and dragged him into himself.) He stretched his neck above his collar and passed his finger along the edge. (Some woman's throat white like that. Bent back. Lilies on a windy day. I shall die.)
Young Goode coming toward him. Goode thinking, Here's that unmoral innocent. He'll live forever. Hurst's a bounder. Damn well-meaning ass.
They stood on the street corner gossiping. Young Goode's brown eyes desponded from boredom. Very handsome. A black mustache. His nose almost Greek. His head empty—only a few clever thoughts. "Hello, Hurst." "Hello, Goode, old chap. Yes, going out to Marburne to-morrow—Wilson and his wife. How are you? What do you think of the election? Glad that crook, Hallowell, got kicked out."
Goode said he was thinking of turning Bolshevist. His smile was self-appreciative. Ludicrous!
"Well, I hope not. Haven't come to that yet. But the patriotism of some of these ward heelers is pretty thin. Yes—hope we'll see you."
They moved apart. Young Goode grew small in distance. A dark vanishing speck down the glaring street. Christ, what a hot day! Charles mumbled over some obscene expressions. I don't want to think. (Catherine, lilies, white and beautiful neck.)
Charles had gone all the way to town on foot. In front of the building where his office was located he encountered Mr. Wilson. "Hello! Hello! What do you think of this for the beginning of fall? Hot, eh? About time for another drink? Yes, going out to your wife's new place. Kate says it's quite a buy. Not yours? What's a husband now-a-days! Superfluous critter. Endured but not wanted."
Mr. Wilson's eyes were twinklingly submerged between his fat cheeks and bulging brows. He hadn't time for a drink. He wanted to talk business before he left town. He chuckled at everything Charles said. His full cheeks quivered and his neat belly shook in the opening of his coat. Charles was wary of unqualified approbation, but the more suspicious he became the more easy and Rabelaisian was his conversation. "Well—well—well, Hurst! I'll be—" Mr. Wilson actually suffered in delight.
They had seated themselves in Charles's inner room, a handsome heavy desk between them. Charles gazed with cold innocent eyes at the laughing fat man opposite.