"Do come up and tell me what you mean by your hatred of youth. You so rarely commit yourself to an arguable statement like that.... I'm open to conviction of almost anything."
"I must go along home," said Wenny. He turned, raising an arm, and walked fast down the street.
The stairs creaked under the carpet as Fanshaw climbed slowly, two steps at a time, to his room. He turned the key and went in. Objects were illuminated by a greenwhite swath of light from the arclight at the corner that cut through the curtains and made a bright oblong on the ceiling. On the broad desk beside the window papers gleamed white and an inkbottle gave a glint of jet. Fanshaw pulled down the shades of the two windows and clicked on the reading lamp on the desk. Examination books in blue covers made a neat pile on one corner. On another were bundles of folded papers held tight by elastics. In the center were many pencils and pens of different colors in a shallow copper tray. Fanshaw felt the peevish despair slipping off him. He went into the alcove where the bed was, took off his shoes and coat slowly thinking of nothing, his eyes following the twisting figures on the chintz window curtains. Then he walked across the floor to the bookcase, his feet at ease in slippers, and pulled aside the blue silk curtain that kept the dust off his books. For a long time he contemplated the colored oblongs of their backs, reading the gilt and black and red type of titles, deciding what he should read.
* * * *
The air was raw. Clouds ruddy from the glare of arclights sagged like awnings over the streets. They were walking briskly down an oozy black alley near the market.
"Where are you taking us, Wenny?" said Nan. She rested a greygloved hand on Fanshaw's arm for a moment as she stepped over a pile of fruit-skins on the curb.
"You said you wanted a walk before dinner"; Wenny sauntered ahead talking over his shoulder.
"We are getting it. I didn't know there were so many streets in Boston, did you, Nan?" Fanshaw spoke with a little sniggering laugh. The ooze of grimy unfamiliar lives out of these dark houses oppressed him. Unhealthy it must be down here, typhoid, consumption, typhus, diphtheria. He felt himself putting his feet down gently as he walked as if he feared that at a loud step the pulpy darkness would burst suddenly into oaths and shouts, dirty hands clutching at his coat and whisky-steaming faces thrust into his.
"Now you know where you are," said Wenny.
They had burst suddenly out into the shine and scuttle of Hanover Street, where men and women, dark bulky shadows in overcoats and mufflers and bits of fur, flitted constantly past the broad show-windows bright with intricate glints on shoes and hardware and sourish colors in clothing stores and gleaming cascades of cheap jewelry over black velvet under the three ominous gold balls of pawnbrokers.