ther forms
of chicanery by which the many are defrauded and fooled by the few--those
"virtues" he understood and practiced. But justice--humanity's ages-long
dream that at last seems to glitter as a hope in the horizon of the
future--justice--not legal justice, nor moral justice, but human
justice--that idea would have seemed to him ridiculous, Utopian,
something for the women and the children and the socialists.

Norman understood Galloway, and Galloway understood Norman. Galloway,
with an old man's garrulity and a confirmed moral poseur's eagerness
about appearances, began to unfold his virtuous reasons for the
impending break with Burroughs--the industrial and financial war out of
which he expected to come doubly rich and all but supreme. Midway he
stopped.

"You are not listening," said he sharply to the young man.

Their eyes met. Norman's eyes were twinkling. "No," said he, "I am
waiting."

There was the suggestion of an answering gleam of sardonic humor in
Galloway's cold gray eyes. "Waiting for what?"

"For you to finish with me as father confessor, to begin with me as
lawyer. Pray don't hurry. My time is yours." This with a fine air of
utmost suavity and respect.

In fact, while Galloway was doddering on and on with his fake
moralities, Norman was thinking of his own affairs, was wondering at his
indifference about Dorothy. The night before--the few hours before--when
he had dealt with her so calmly, he, even as he talked and listened and
acted, had assumed that the enormous amount of liquor he had been
consuming was in some way responsible. He had said to himself, "When I
am over this, when I have had sleep and return to the normal, I shall
again be the foolish slave of all these months." But here he was, sober,
having taken only enough whisky to prevent an abrupt let-down--here he
was viewing her in the same tranquil light. No longer all his life; no
longer even dominant; only a part of life--and he was by no means
certain that she was an important part.

How explain the mystery of the change? Because she had voluntarily come
back, did he feel that she was no longer baffling but was definitely
his? Or had passion running madly on and on dropped--perhaps not dead,
but almost dead--from sheer exhaustion?--was it weary of racing and
content to saunter and to stroll? . . . He could not account for the
change. He only knew that he who had been quite mad was now quite
sane. . . . Would he like to be rid of