"It is a field worth tilling," said the older man as they shook hands. "Your hand is on the plough. Keep your eyes ahead."
"I feel an inspiration," cried Imrie.
"Ho—yes," said Weis dryly. "But that will pass. Then it will be work. But I will help you. I am older. I know—some things. You are a Christian. I am only a Jew. Still—I can help. Ho—yes. I will be with you when the inspiration goes. I am more useful than inspiration. Yes—I will be with you—until you turn back. Then I will not be with you."
"I will not turn back," cried Imrie firmly.
"Yes—I have known young men before—who would not turn back. We shall see—yes."
Imrie felt, as he walked toward the elevator, that there was nothing in the world he would not suffer rather than have those snapping black eyes look upon him with scorn, and hear that crisp voice, with its indefinable accent, say—
"Ho—yes. I have seen—another young man."