treatment accorded to Rhoda's party. Why must he be the victim of such qualms when people like Max could be as rude as they chose and not even be aware of it, much less remorseful! In the end, however, his conscience took up the matter of the taxicab. Pep, it told him, would have ridden in the subway on principle. Max would have walked, and sung hearty ribaldries en route, and flung stones into the Charles. Even Max flinging stones was a picture of well-directed energy. While mild young Thanets stood on the river bank sedately meditating the futility of shying pebbles at bottles, men of genius busily and thoughtlessly shied, and, glorying in the final lusty crash, cried out, "Hit it, be God!" And that was, somehow, constructive.
The cab joggled through narrow streets and emerged upon the expanse of Commonwealth Avenue, passing a line of pompous cocoa-colored houses with which Grover was by now so familiar that he could direct the driver, "The fourth from the corner."
As he was paying the fare a startlingly familiar shout smote his ears, Looking quickly up he was horrified to see Rhoda, Alcie, Dick Briarcliffe, and Eric Peperell darting by. They waved to him gayly, mockingly, as though they read Meanings into his errand. Eric doffed his hat with a courtly sweep.
Grover swung about and walked up the steps with as nonchalant an air as he could command.
The cool shiny hall that lay beyond the grille had never seemed such a welcome haven from all that
