n if her father were his best friend. He loved her and he loved his
love of her. Her eyes were two skies that smiled more bluely than God's
one. Her hair had the rust of gold and the dust of sun, and radiated
light and glints of love. From her wonderful lips came, in the voice of
the flowers, the one command that he, a hater of slaves, would obey,
gratefully kneeling. And the lips said it, flower-like, in silence!

She was not there to be loved. But he loved her, and because he loved
her he loved everybody, everything. Even his fellow-men.

They also should love! All of them! Love to love and love to live!

Did they?

He looked for the first time at his fellow-men on the park benches.

He saw sodden faces, reptile-like sunning themselves, warming their
skins; no more.

They were men without money.

They therefore were men without eyes, without ears, without tongues.
They therefore were men without love. Everything had been cleanly
excised by the great surgeon, Civilization!

A wonderful invention, money. To think that puny man had, by means of
that ingenious device, thwarted not only Nature, but God Himself!

If money had not been invented, there would not be great cities to be
loveless in!

But those on the park benches, lizard-like sunning themselves, were
tramps. The pedestrians had money. They, therefore, must have love.

He looked at them and saw that what they had was their hands in their
pockets. Doubtless it was to keep their money there. By so doing they
did not have to sit on park benches and fail to see the sky and the
buds, and fail to hear the birds and the breeze.

And yet, as he looked he saw on their faces the same blindness and the
same deafness.

On the benches sat immortal souls drugged with misery. On the paths
walked men asleep with Self.

He alone was alive and awake!

The appalling solitude of a great city was all about him. He was the
only living man in New York!

And Grace Goodchild was the only woman in the world! He loved her. He
loved everybody. He wished to give, give, give!

"You'll be fed!" he said to the park benches.

"You'll feed em!" he told the sidewalks.

"I'll marry you! he wirelessed to Grace.

"You," he said to all New York, "will pay for every bit of it!"

He walked into his office, frowning. Andrew Barrett was there.

"Come with me," H. R. told him, and led the way into the private office.

He sat down at his desk, brushed away a lot of letters, and s