He had a couple of hours to spare before his train, and began to wander through the streets, as he had during his first dark days in New York. Then he had been unknown and starving; now he had a name, had friends, a roof over his head, and a wife who adored him; yet his inner solitude was deeper than ever. Was the fault his, or was it latent in this dreadful system of forcing talent, trying to squeeze every drop out of it before it was ripe; the principle of the quick turnover applied to brains as it was to real estate? As he walked, the old dream of the New York novel recurred to him: the jostling crowds, the swarm of motors, the huge arrogant masses of masonry, roused his imagination, and he thought to himself: "Tarrant's right; what a fool I was to talk poetry to him!" He stood on a corner of Fifth Avenue while the motors crawled up and down in endless procession, and looking into one slowly moving carriage after another he wondered what sort of a life each of these women (they were almost all women) led, where they were going, what they were thinking of, what other lives were interwoven with theirs. Oh, to have a year to dream of it all, without putting pen to paper! But even a year would not be enough; what he needed was to immerse himself in life without so much as remembering that it must some day bring him in a return, to live as carelessly as all these women rolling past him in their motors… .

Mrs. Pulsifer—she was that kind, he supposed. The thought reminded him of her telegram. He hadn't answered it because he hadn't known what to say. But now that he was in town, why not try to see her? Funny woman—she'd signed the wire "Jet," as if he and she were old friends! Lucky she had such a queer name; if she'd been called Mabel, or any real woman's name, he'd never have heard the end of it from Laura Lou… . He remembered her address: she lived only a few streets off, he had plenty of time to call before catching his train. She'd be out, probably; but then he could write and say he'd been… . He reached the street and identified the number as that of an impressive wide-fronted house, the kind he had often curiously gazed at in wandering about the city, but never imagined himself entering. He rang the bell, and instantly, as if he had been expected, the heavy double door of glass and wrought iron flew open, and a tall young man in a dark coat with silver buttons barred the threshold.