oetry as strings of high-sounding words which produced a pleasant
mental reaction, something abstract and exotic. He had never fancied
that poetry was a thing to be seen and understood and lived, and that
such common things as bread and wine and love and hatred were shot
through with the pure gold of mystery. Once, if he had been moved to
magnanimity it would have been through an impulse of weak and
bloodless sentimentality ... now he had risen to generosity on the
wings of a supreme indifference, a magnificent contempt for
unessentials, a full-blooded understanding. Not that he had achieved a
cold and pallid philosophy ... a system of lukewarm expediencies. He
could still be swept by gusts of feeling ... he could even risk his
life to preserve it.

He turned the pages of the newspaper over mechanically, reading word
upon word which held not the slightest meaning. He felt Storch's eyes
upon him, drawn, no doubt, by a mixture of subtle doubts and vague
appraisals. His thoughts flew to Ginger. What was she doing at this
moment? Was there any chance of _her_ failure? For answer another
question shaped itself: Had she _ever_ failed? Yet, this time she was
beset with dangers. And in his imagination he saw her treading the
thin ice of destiny with the same glorified contempt which lured him
to the poetical depths of life... And again Monet was at his side...
vague, mysterious, impalpable, the essence of things unseen but hoped
for, the solved riddle made spirit, the vast patience of eternity
realized. And still Storch's restless eyes were fixed upon him.

Presently he heard Storch's voice coming to his ears out of a friendly
dusk:

"It's nine-thirty...I guess we had better be moving."

He did not stir at first...he merely sat staring at Storch, very much
as a man waking suddenly and not yet alive to the precise details of
his environment. "Moving...where?" he finally inquired.

Storch crumpled the newspaper in his hand viciously. "Come...you've
been dreaming!" he flung out. "That's dangerous!"

Fred braced himself in his chair. "I'm not going," he said, quietly.
"I've changed my mind!"

Storch's mouth widened, not in a smile this time, but in a vicious
snarl. He took out a cheap watch from his pocket, glanced at it, and
put it back.

"It's just twenty-five minutes to ten," he said, quietly. "I'll give
you five more minutes."

Fred put both his arms upon the cluttered table, leaning forward, as
he answered:

"Not