ful for
something they never received. The pretty ones go away chuckling
secretly over something they never gave. It is a confused and
unintelligible waste of time. It will be enough to paint, to talk, to
sip tea, to wander about proselyting in behalf of improvised Gods. I
will divert myself, making love to women out of range of their bedrooms.
I will engage them conversationally and ravish them with erect and
quivering adjectives. It is not necessary to undress a woman to know
her. She reveals herself almost as piquantly in moods. I will be the
father of moods. And, as a recreation, I will sit and watch the days in
their unchanging flight. I bristle with rhetoric. It is a symptom of
sanity. I am grateful for this ability to bore myself."

It was morning. Mallare paused against a window. He stood, staring into
the life of the street. His eyes were drawn and the corners of his wide,
thin mouth smiled feebly.

Snow was falling. The morning dissolved itself. Traffic drifted busily
and without sound behind the snow--an excited pantomime that filled the
air with misplaced, ventriloquial whispers.

Mallare remained smiling into the gentle storm. Snow covered his head
and shoulder.

"The snow falls," he thought tiredly. "It snows, snows. White flakes
lose themselves and are grateful for the earth. An invisible ending that
flatters them. Well, I have walked all night and rid myself of wisdoms.
I am hungry. It's possible I haven't eaten for months. In order to eat,
however, I need money."

He slipped one of the gloves from his hand and felt in his pocket. A
satisfied smile came to his eyes.

"Excellent," he thought. "Or I would have celebrated my sanity by
starving to death."

Withdrawing his hand from his pocket, he found himself regarding it. It
grinned back at him like a stranger. It was red.

"Blood," he murmured. His eyes glanced quickly around and he replaced
the glove. He continued to walk.

"Blood," he repeated to himself. The word made an ending in his thought.
He walked slowly staring at it. His silence lifted. A voice crept into
him and began to speak from a distance.

"Careful," it murmured. "Be cautious. Remember you were mad. You had
almost forgotten. There is something to think about, now. You will walk
slowly and think. It's not as easy as it seemed. Be careful.

"Your fists fought with a phantom. Blows, wild blows. The grotesque
memory--the madman pummelling the air. That was you. And your hands ar