f a pillow (an A-one
pillow; not the kind upon which Charles-Norton and Dolly laid their
modest heads) eddied slowly to Charles-Norton's feet while he shivered
slightly to the coldness of the steel. (Dolly cut very close.)

Then, "All right; all done," she sang, dropping the scissors into the
round pocket of her crackling apron; "now to breakfast, quick! And
here's a kiss for the good boy."

Placing her red lips upon his, she whisked off to the kitchenette; and
Charles-Norton, emerging all dressed a little later, found the cheerful
blue ware on the table, and his waffles upon his plate, hot beneath his
napkin. After which, stuffing the morning paper into his pocket, he
departed with another kiss on the landing, and strode forth for the L.
Life was just as before.

And yet, not quite. Because, to tell the truth, Charles-Norton was not
absolutely happy.

He could not have told what was the matter. Mostly, it was an emptiness.
An emptiness is hard to analyze. He knew that there was much of which he
should be content. With the careful repression of the vagaries of his
shoulders, there had come to him a new attentiveness at his work. His
nose, now, never wandered after passing butterflies, and his salary had
been raised to twenty-two dollars a week. Also, the ridiculous flapping
had gone, and the impulse to draw fool lines upon a card.

But with these--and that was the trouble--other things had vanished. That
deep filling of his lungs with spring, for instance. And the longing that
went with it. That was it--the longing. He longed for the longing--if
that is comprehensible. He longed vaguely for a longing that had been
his, and which was gone. He never saw, now, a land that was as a golden
pool beneath a turquoise dome; nor a boy in the wild oats watching a
circling hawk.

And there was something else, something more definite. He felt that
Dolly--yes, Dolly took too much pleasure, altogether too much pleasure in
that clipping business. Of course, the clipping had to be. He knew that.
A respectable man can't have feathers on his shoulders. It was necessary.
But somehow he would have felt that necessity more, if Dolly had felt
it--less. He would have liked a chance to voice it himself. If Dolly,
now, only would, some fine morning, say, "Oh, Goosie, let them be
to-day; they are so pretty," then he could have answered, very firmly,
"No, clip away!" But she never gave him that chance. She was always so
radiantly ready! As