This enforced stay, when he knew he was on his way home, had seemed
almost unbearable to Lane. He felt that he had the strength to get
home, and that was about all. He began to expectorate blood--no
unusual thing for him--but this time to such extent that he feared the
return of hemorrhage. The nights seemed sleepless, burning, black
voids; and the days were hideous with noise and distraction. He wanted
to think about the fact that he was home--an astounding and
unbelievable thing. Once he went down to the city and walked on
Broadway and Fifth Avenue, taxing his endurance to the limit. But he
had become used to pain and exhaustion. So long as he could keep up he
did not mind.

That day three powerful impressions were forced upon Lane, never to be
effaced. First he found that the change in him was vast and
incalculable and vague. He could divine but not understand. Secondly,
the men of the service, disabled or not, were old stories to New
Yorkers. Lane saw soldiers begging from pedestrians. He muttered to
himself: "By God, I'll starve to death before I ever do that!" He
could not detect any aloofness on the part of passers-by. They were
just inattentive. Lane remembered with sudden shock how differently
soldiers had been regarded two or three years ago. He had read lengthy
newspaper accounts of the wild and magnificent welcome accorded to the
first soldiers to return to New York. How strange the contrast! But
that was long ago--past history--buried under the immense and hurried
and inscrutable changes of a nation. Lane divined that, as he felt the
mighty resistless throb of the great city. His third and strongest
impression concerned the women he met and passed on the streets. Their
lips and cheeks were rouged. Their dresses were cut too low at the
neck. But even this fashion was not nearly so striking as the short
skirts, cut off at the knees, and in many cases above. At first this