The sting of this did not escape Vance. The social classifications of Euphoria were based on telephones and bathtubs; but he had already guessed that elsewhere other categories prevailed. His irritation made it easier to answer than if the letter had been more cordial. He wrote that he didn't suppose his father would seriously advise him, even if he were willing to break his contract, to give up a good opening in New York for a problematic job at Euphoria. He thanked his parents for offering his wife and himself a room, but added that his mother-in-law had already given them a home at Paul's Landing. And he posted this letter without telling either Mrs. Tracy or Laura Lou that he had heard from his mother. To his grandmother he wrote affectionately; he knew that a Bible and a year's subscription to Spirit Light were the best she could afford, and the tone of her letter touched him. She was the one human being at Euphoria who had dimly guessed what he was groping for: their souls had brushed wings in the twilight… .

The weeks passed. He took his first article—"Coleridge Today"—to The Hour, and Eric Rauch was enthusiastic, but said Vance must tackle a contemporary next time. Rauch suggested his own volume of poems, Voodoo, and Vance reddened and mumbled at the suggestion. The little book had interested and puzzled him; he was surprised to watch, under its modern bluster, so many half-familiar notes. He said he didn't believe he was ready yet to tackle the new poetry; hadn't read enough or understood enough of it; Eric Rauch rejoined, with his compelling smile: "Why, that's just what we're after for The Hour: a fellow's first reactions, before he's ready. We want to wipe out the past and get a fresh eye on things. We can get standardized reviewing by the bushel." Vance travelled home heavyhearted, trying on the way to distract his thoughts by thinking up subjects for his next story.