hey get through with them they're so
thumb-marked and greasy that no one else wants them. They don't get
enough golf, those Greenwichers. They don't get enough tennis. They
don't get enough walking in the open places. Gosh, no! I know better
than to fall for that kind of thing. They spend hours talking to each
other, in dim-lighted attics, about Souls, and Society, and the Joy
of Life, and the Greater Good. And they know all about each other's
insides. They talk themselves out, and there's nothing left to write
about. A little of that kind of thing purges and cleanses. Too much of
it poisons, and clogs. No, ma'am! When I want to talk I go down and chin
with the foreman of our composing room. There's a chap that has what
I call conversation. A philosopher, and knows everything in the world.
Composing room foremen always are and do. Now, that's all of that. How
about Fanny Brandeis? Any sketches? Come on. Confess. Grand street,
anyway."

"I haven't touched a pencil, except to add up a column of figures or
copy an order, since last September, when you were so sure I couldn't
stop."

"You've done a thousand in your head. And if you haven't done one on
paper so much the better. You'll jam them back, and stifle them, and
screw the cover down tight on every natural impulse, and then, some day,
the cover will blow off with a loud report. You can't kill that kind
of thing, Fanny. It would have to be a wholesale massacre of all the
centuries behind you. I don't so much mind your being disloyal to your
tribe, or race, or whatever you want to call it. But you've turned your
back on yourself; you've got an obligation to humanity, and I'll nag
you till you pay it. I don't care if I lose you, so long as you find
yourself. The thing you've got isn't merely racial. God, no! It's
universal. And you owe it to the world. Pay up, Fanny! Pay up!"

"Look here!" began Fanny, her voice low with anger; "the last time I saw
you I said I'd never again put myself in a position to be lectured by
you, like a schoolgirl. I mean it, this time. If you have anything
else to say to me, say it now. The train leaves"--she glanced at
her wrist--"in two minutes, thank Heaven, and this will be your last
chance."

"All right," said Heyl. "I have got something to say. Do you wear
hatpins?"

"Hatpins!" blankly. "Not with this small hat, but what----"

"That means you're defenseless. If you're going to prowl the streets of
Chicago alone get this: If you do