er fury.

As he stood there, he felt a wild desire to shout at these people, to
curse them, to seize one of these dainty women by the arms, thrust his
disfigured face close to hers and cry: "Look at me as if I were a man,
not a monstrosity. I'm what I am so that you could be what you are.
Look at me, damn you!"

He pulled himself together and walked on. Certainly he would soon run
amuck if he did not get over feeling like that, if he did not master
these impulses which bordered on insanity. He wondered if that inner
ferment would drive him insane.

He went back to the second-rate hotel where he had taken refuge,
depressed beyond words, afraid of himself, afraid of the life which
lay in fragments behind him and spread away before him in terrifying
drabness. Yet he must go on living. To live was the dominant instinct.
A man did not put on or off the desire to live as he put on or off his
coat. But life promised nothing. It was going to be a sorry affair. It
struck Hollister with disheartening force that an individual is
nothing--absolutely nothing--apart from some form of social grouping.
And society, which had exacted so much from him, seemed peculiarly
indifferent to the consequences of those imperative exactions, seemed
wholly indifferent to his vital need.

And it was not reward or recognition of service performed that
Hollister craved. He did not want to be pensioned or subsidized or to
have medals pinned on him. What he wanted was chiefly to forget the
war and what the war had visited upon him and others like him.
Hollister suffered solely from that sense of being held outside the
warm circle of human activities, fellowships, friendliness. If he
could not overcome that barrier which people threw up around
themselves at contact with him, if he could not occasionally know the
sound of a friendly voice, he felt that he would very soon go mad. A
man cannot go on forever enduring the pressure of the intolerable.
Hollister felt that he must soon arrive at a crisis. What form it
would take he did not know, and in certain moods he did not care.

On the landing at the end of the narrow corridor off which his room
opened he met a man in uniform whom he recognized,--a young man who
had served under him in the Forty-fourth, who had won a commission on
the field. He wore a captain's insignia now. Hollister greeted him by
name.

"Hello, Tommy."

The captain looked at him. His face expressed nothing whatever.
Hollister w