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 fellow had to grow? Cool reflection often informed him that she did, that she was trying her best to be fair, but when he was with her he resented this attitude more than anything else. How dare she try to be fair? He was enraged by this patronage, this condescension, as it seemed to him.

Sooner or later his thoughts obstinately reverted to Lasca. She had understanding. She, he felt certain, would give him sympathy. She was a real man's woman. He telephoned her more than once, but invariably received the message that she was still out of town and it was not known when she would return.

To rid himself of his recurring fits of depression, it became his habit to visit a pool-room where he could be sure of meeting fellows who were glad to see him, especially if he could pay for a drink. They often would go on to a cabaret to sit and talk or dance until late in the morning and it would be afternoon before he had summoned enough energy to start out on a renewed quest of employment.

Naturally his writing lagged. Sometimes he would sit before his table for an hour, striving to string words together. Nothing would come of this effort. His mind, he believed, was in too much of a turmoil, life disturbed him too much, to permit calm thinking and calm thinking was essential to a writer; he knew that. Further, there was the fundamental and disturbing question of a suitable subject. He seemed unable to assemble his mate-