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 months had been as pointless as the capering of the wind across the surface of a deep lake. He had been ready to learn that intellect fed the lake; now he suspected that intellect merely rippled it. He was beginning to guess,—and it was discomfiting, for he had heatedly argued to the contrary,—that life was fed by little streams of feeling, and, perhaps, by a good broad river whose existence had been quite unknown to him. This afternoon he was aware of a trickle, a definite current; he could almost hear the murmur of cascades which must be pouring their contents into him! The murmur of cascades, the sound of a small white hand punching a velvet cushion. It was not only a beneficent sensation, it was a little vertiginous. It quickened his instinct and dyed his fancy; by the same token it tripled his contempt for mere wind, of the sort that blew gustily around the ears of student groups and stirred up silly clouds of dust. It was shocking to think that so far he had contributed nothing to life but a capacity to absorb written ideas and give them back in impassioned arguments that weren't even right! It was time to do something.

Scriabin was becoming easier, and making more sense.

But do what—what! Why didn't people's bachelor uncles tell you what you were going to make of yourself, instead of asking you!

June, and the much-touted young man's fancy,—where, if any, was his? Or in the heart or in the