t." This seems to make matters rather worse and he changes
the subject abruptly. "How's Nancy?" he asks with what he hopes seems
disconnected indifference.

"Nancy? All right. Hates St. Louis, of course."

"Should think she might, this summer. Pretty hot there, isn't it?"

"Says it's like a wet furnace. And her family's bothering her some."

"Um, too bad."

"Oh, _I_ don't mind. But it's rotten for her. They don't see the point
exactly--don't know that I blame them. She could be in Paris, now--that
woman was ready to put up the money. My fault."

"Well, she seems to like things better the way they are--God knows
why, my antic friend! If it were _my_ question between you and a year
studying abroad! Not that you haven't your own subtle attractions,
Ollie." Ted has hoped to irritate Oliver into argument by the closing
remark, but the latter only accepts it with militant gloom.

"Yes, I've done her out of that, too," he says abysmally, "as well as
sticking her in St. Louis while I stay here and can't even drag down
enough money to support her--"

"Oh, Ollie, snap out of it! That's only being dramatic. You know
darn well you will darn soon. I'll be saying 'bless you, my children,
increase and multiply,' inside a month if your novel goes through."

"If! Oh well. Oh hell. I think I've wept on your shoulder long enough
for tonight, Ted. Tell me your end of it--things breaking all right?"

Ted's face sets into lines that seem curiously foreign and aged for the
smooth surface.

"Well--you know my trouble," he brings out at last with some difficulty.
"You ought to, anyhow--we've talked each other over too much when we
were both rather planko for you not to. I'm getting along, I think. The
work--_ca marche assez bien_. And the restlessness--can be stood. That's
about all there is to say."

Both are completely serious now.

"Bon. Very glad," says Oliver in a low voice.

"I can stand it. I was awful afraid I couldn't when I first got back.
And law interests me, really, though I've lost three years because of
the war. And I'm working like a pious little devil with a new assortment
of damned and when you haven't any money you can't go on parties in New
York unless you raise gravy riding to a fine art. Only sometimes--well,
you know how it is--"

Oliver nods.

"I'll be sitting there, at night especially, in that little tin Tophet
of a room on Madison Avenue, working. I _can_ work, if I do say it
myself--I'm hoping to