dreamer had made life itself the dream. Don, full-grown, was ready to achieve his destiny.
At the ringing of the electric bell of his apartment, he rose mechanically; and, still staring before him with blind eyes, he went to open his door.
Bert Pittsey was shaking the snow from his hat brim in the outer hall. "They've operated on Conroy," he said in a manner that was roughly apologetic. "He'll recover. I thought you'd like to know."
Don passed his hand across his eyes. "Yes. Thanks," he said thickly. "Won't you come in?"
Bert studied him. "Were you asleep?"
"No-o."
"Walt was afraid you might be. He wouldn't come up. He's downstairs."
Don shook his head meaninglessly.
"I think I'll get him. He has some news for you—from Polk."
He disappeared down the stairs. Don went back into his room and sat down to wait, in a sort of numb indifference. He reached an empty pipe and held it with the mouthpiece against his pursed lips. "Come in," he said.
Walter Pittsey smiled down at him. "I was afraid that you might be in bed. I saw Polk this evening. He says there's 'something' in your 'Winter'—something that he thinks he could work up into an extravaganza. He wants to see you about it. He'll probably offer to buy it from you. What do you say?"
He waited, expecting the boyish delight which did not appear. Don did not raise his eyes. "He can have it."
