"They hurt?" asked Monte anxiously.
"You need your eyes in New York," he answered simply.
"You went in too hard," suggested Monte.
"Is there any other way?" cried Noyes.
"I used to play football a little," said Monte. "I suppose it's something like that—when a man gets the spirit of the thing. When you hit the line you want to feel that you 're putting into it every ounce in you."
Noyes nodded.
"Into your work—into your life."
"Into your life?" queried Monte.
"Into everything."
Monte turned to look at the man. His thin lips had come together in a straight line. His hollow cheeks were flushed. Every sense was as alert as a fencer's. If he had lived long like that, no wonder his eyes had gone bad. Yet last night Monte himself had lived like that, pacing his room hour after hour. Only it was not work that had given a cutting edge to each minute—not life, whatever Noyes meant by that. His thoughts had all been of a woman. Was that life? Was it what Noyes had meant when he said "everything"?