He had no difficulty in reassuring Laura Lou. She saw that, as one of the staff of the New Hour, he had to be present at the Tarrants' party; he even coaxed a laugh from her about his having missed his train. She wanted to know where he had gone after leaving the Tarrants', and whether he wasn't worn out, waiting around so long in the station; and he said evasively, no, he hadn't minded, feeling that the mention of the "Loafers'" would only unsettle her again. His own mind was unsettled enough. He was tormented with the poem he wanted to write, and exasperated at the thought of being chained up to his next monthly article (they had to be ready a month ahead), and then to a short story, and eventually to a novel, none of which, at the moment, he felt the least desire to write. How could he ever have been fool enough to run his head into such a noose? He remembered Frenside's warning, and cursed himself for not having heeded it. What he earned at the New Hour (supposing he were able to fulfill his contract) wasn't enough to keep him and his wife, if ever they had to leave Paul's Landing—and to leave Paul's Landing had become his overmastering desire. He wanted, worse than ever, to be back in New York, back among all those fellows he could talk to. He wanted to be able to spend an evening at the Tarrants'—or at the "Loafers'," for that matter—without being confronted at dawn by two haggard women who thought themselves magnanimous because they didn't cross-examine him like a truant schoolboy. He wanted to see whom he pleased, go where he chose, write what he wanted—be free, free, free, in body as well as mind, yes, and in heart as well as soul. That was the worst of it: if life went on like this much longer his love for Laura Lou would fade to a pitying fondness, and then there would be no meaning in anything.