“Yes, yes,” she broke in quickly, “how high is it?”
“Seven hundred and fifty feet.”
The girl turned and faced him.
“Don’t,” she said. “I can’t bear it. Some other time, perhaps, but not now.”
She had risen and was gathering up her wraps. “And you,” she said, “why are you going to America?”
“Why?” he answered. “Because I want to see, to know, to learn. And when I have learned and seen and known, I want other people to see and to learn and to know. I want to write it all down, all the vast palpitating picture of it. Ah! if I only could—I want to see” (and here he passed his hand through his hair as if trying to remember) “something of the relations of labour and capital, of the extraordinary development of industrial machinery, of the new and intricate organisation of corporation finance, and in particular I want to try to analyse—no one has ever done it yet—the men who guide and drive it all. I want to set down the psychology of the multimillionaire!”
He paused. The girl stood irresolute. She was thinking (apparently, for if not, why stand there?).
“Perhaps,” she faltered, “I could help you.”
“You!”
“Yes, I might.” She hesitated. “I—I—come from America.”