success that spurs men on. All the emo-
tions passed in procession at night before
him, tricked out in palpable forms.

A burst of girlish tears would dissipate
whatever lingering pity Zoe felt for him.
How often he said that! With her sensi-
tiveness she would be sure to hate a man
who had mortified her.

So he fell to dreaming of her again as
moving among happy and luxurious scenes,
exquisitely clothed, with flowers on her
bosom and jewels on her neck; and he saw
men loving her, and was glad, and saw her
at last loving the best of them, and told
himself in the silence of the night that
it was as he wished.

Yet always, always, from weary week to
weary week, he rehearsed the scenes. They
were his theatre, his opera, his library, his
lecture hall.

He rehearsed them again there on the
cars. He never wearied of them. To be
sure, other thoughts had come to him at
night. Much that to most men seems com-
plex and puzzling had grown to appear
simple to him. In a way his brain had