owards the light; it is an expansion towards and into God,
it is a h-piritual self-unification with the Infinite."

"How true!" sighed Priscilla, nodding the baleful splendours of her
coiffure.

"Pessimism, on the other hand, is the contraction of the soul towards
darkness; it is a focusing of the self upon a point in the Lower Plane;
it is a h-piritual slavery to mere facts; to gross physical phenomena."

"They're making a wild man of me." The refrain sang itself over in
Denis's mind. Yes, they were; damn them! A wild man, but not wild
enough; that was the trouble. Wild inside; raging, writhing--yes,
"writhing" was the word, writhing with desire. But outwardly he was
hopelessly tame; outwardly--baa, baa, baa.

There they were, Anne and Gombauld, moving together as though they were
a single supple creature. The beast with two backs. And he sat in
a corner, pretending to read, pretending he didn't want to dance,
pretending he rather despised dancing. Why? It was the baa-baa business
again.

Why was he born with a different face? Why WAS he? Gombauld had a face
of brass--one of those old, brazen rams that thumped against the walls
of cities till they fell. He was born with a different face--a woolly
face.

The music stopped. The single harmonious creature broke in two. Flushed,
a little breathless, Anne swayed across the room to the pianola, laid
her hand on Mr. Wimbush's shoulder.

"A waltz this time, please, Uncle Henry," she said.

"A waltz," he repeated, and turned to the cabinet where the rolls were
kept. He trod off the old roll and trod on the new, a slave at the
mill, uncomplaining and beautifully well bred. "Rum; Tum; Rum-ti-ti;
Tum-ti-ti..." The melody wallowed oozily along, like a ship moving
forward over a sleek and oily swell. The four-legged creature, more
graceful, more harmonious in its movements than ever, slid across the
floor. Oh, why was he born with a different face?

"What are you reading?"

He looked up, startled. It was Mary. She had broken from the
uncomfortable embrace of Mr. Scogan, who had now seized on Jenny for his
victim.

"What are you reading?"

"I don't know," said Denis truthfully. He looked at the title page; the
book was called "The Stock Breeder's Vade Mecum."

"I think you are so sensible to sit and read quietly," said Mary, fixing
him with her china eyes. "I don't know why one dances. It's so boring."

Denis made no reply; she exacerbated him. From the arm-chair by