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 become cognizant. It was only because the husband desired above all else to avoid a scandal that he, Byron, had been let off so easily. Even so, it was stipulated that he should leave Philadelphia. His friends had wondered why he had not returned for the great Howard-Lincoln football game at Thanksgiving, why he had not visited his family at Christmas. . . . He looked at the cheque again and laughed. Twenty-five dollars wouldn't last very long. . . . God! he moaned, I've tried hard enough to find work. His memory reviewed all the advertisements he had answered, the humiliations he had endured, the long series of refusals, couched in insulting terms, that he had encountered. He could scarcely tolerate the idea of making renewed efforts in this direction. Yet, he realized, he had so far only attempted to secure positions offered to college men, only open, the event proved, to white college men. He had not yet descended to asking for what his father so nobly termed honest employment. He felt that he would almost rather starve first. By God, if his education were worth nothing to him why had he taken the trouble to get a college degree? A Negro with a college degree is two steps ahead of his uneducated brothers, every one had assured him, and his attention was directed to the number of graduates who had risen to such heights in their race that they lived lives of comparative ease and comfort, respected even by white people. Yes, there was plenty of that sort

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 of thing around him. Why was it so difficult for him to make a start?

His room was so small that it was almost possible for him to touch every article of furniture without moving from his chair at his writing-table. Often, when he was trying to write, he spread his books of reference open on his bed. He could reach for matches on the adjacent bureau. He turned to this bureau now and from one of the drawers extracted a pile of manuscript, written in pencil.

Was he a writer? he wondered. Was there any excuse for him to go ahead, for him to continue to fill up these sheets of paper with these foolish hieroglyphics? So many stories he had begun and so many he had found it impossible to round out. He glanced swiftly over some of the pages. The stories all started out well enough, he told himself. He possessed a gift—his instructors at Pennsylvania had assured him of that—for delineating character in action, for swift description, occasionally for dialogue, but apparently he had no sense of construction. Somewhere along towards the middle, his stories fell apart. They were spineless. The worst difficulty of all was to find a subject: there was so little to write about.

Try as he might, he could not get away from propaganda. The Negro problem seemed to hover over him and occasionally, like the great, black bird it was, claw at his heart. In his stories this influence invariably made itself felt, and it was, he

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 was sometimes convinced, the very thing that kept him from doing better work. Wheels within wheels. A vicious circle.

Could he overcome this obstacle? Unwillingly he was obliged to acknowledge to himself that certain writers of his race had overcome it, particularly Charles Waddell Chesnutt, an author strangely unfamiliar to most of the new generation. Byron himself, indeed, had been introduced to his books by a white professor at college. He lifted The Wife of his Youth from its place on his table and opened its pages for the hundredth time. How much he admired the cool deliberation of its style, the sense of form, but more than all the civilized mind of this man who had surveyed the problems of his race from an Olympian height and had turned them into living and artistic drama. Nothing seemed to have escaped his attention, from the lowly life of the worker on the Southern plantation to the snobbery of the near whites of the North. Chesnutt had surveyed the entire field, calmly setting down what he saw, what he thought and felt about it.

Byron especially admired the story called A Matter of Principle which related the painful experience of the Clayton family, members of the Blue Vein Circle in a middle western city. At a dance in Washington, the daughter, Alice, met a number of attractive young men. Shortly after her return to her home she received a note from a coloured Con-

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 gressman informing her that he would soon be paying a visit to her city and begging to be permitted to call. The letter was couched in terms that indicated beyond any manner of doubt that the Congressman was deeply interested in Alice. She, however, had danced with so many young men that she was unable to recall this particular one. As a Congressman he assuredly had some political importance. The paramount question with her family, belonging as it did to the Blue Veins, was whether he was sufficiently light in colour to be received by their group. Local inquiry elicited a favourable report. The Congressman, therefore, was invited to stop at Mr. Clayton's house and a reception was arranged in hishonour. At the appointed hour Mr. Clayton and his son repaired to the railway station to meet him. Somehow they missed him at the gate. Searching the waiting-rooms they came upon a bag which was plainly marked with their prospective guest's initials, but what was their chagrin to discover standing next to the bag an extremely black man. They receded to confer. Obviously their set would laugh if they went through with their plan to entertain this fellow. In their desperation they remembered that an epidemic of diphtheria was raging in the city. Hastily scribbling a note of apology—it described Alice as laid low with the disease—they dispatched it by a porter to the owner of the bag. Alice subsequently was required to take to her bed, the invitations to the reception were cancelled by

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 telephone, and a friendly physician was bribed to add a quarantine sign to the decorations of the front porch. These precautionary measures attended to, the family breathed a sigh of relief which was transformed, the next morning, into a groan, when they read in the local newspaper a long interview with the Congressman, who was described as nearly white. Thereafter for the week he remained in town they read accounts of the entertainments given for him by the Blue Veins while Alice was compelled to remain in bed. The dark stranger in the station, it appeared, was a bishop who had been the Congressman's travelling companion.

Byron knew in his soul that this story explained why he had not taken advantage of Mr. Sumner's offer to help him secure a position, why he had not called on several other prominent men to whom his father had given him letters. It might be unfair—it probably was—but he felt that these people were snobs and he did not want to be beholden to them. In fact, something stronger than himself, a kind of perverse pride, refused to permit him to make any use of such acquaintanceships. These successful persons liked to be seen with whites or with the light coloured or more famous members of their own race. Well, until he was famous he refused to be patronized.

What a great man Chesnutt must have been to dare publish A Matter of Principle in 1900, before there were any "New Negroes!" Why now, all

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 the young writers who were trying to set down on paper what they knew to be true were branded by the uncultured mob as faithless to their race, untrue to their trust. Their trust! Byron flamed as he thought how the uneducated Negroes delighted in keeping the upper level as low as possible, pulling them down, maliciously, even with glee, when they were able to do so.

His mind travelled irrationally to a consideration of Lasca Sartoris, a pleasanter subject which brought a smile and a cigarette simultaneously to his lips. She had beauty and wit and money. She was rich and successful and happy. She had won. Problems didn't bother her. She had found what she had wanted by wanting what she could get, and then always demanding more, more, until now the world poured its gifts into her bewitching lap. But Lasca Sartoris was a woman, and an exceptionally fascinating woman. Men gave her things, but who would give him anything? Lasca Sartoris! If he might only know her better! That would give him something! Never before had he met so vibrant a personality. . . and golden-brown, his colour.

Mary's behaviour at the dance had surprised him. Somehow he hadn't foreseen that she would be jealous. He had been attracted initially by the cool simplicity of her manner. She had been so different from most of the women he had known. . . . Arline, little spitfire! . . . Immediately he

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 had met Mary, he was aware that he made subtle distinctions in her favour, had even acknowledged to himself that she had a certain power over him, and yet he had not exactly intended to become engaged to her. He loved Mary now that he had awakened an unsuspected fire in her, but he knew that this was a very different Mary from the Mary that had first attracted his attention at Adora's: a passionate, jealous Mary with an unpleasant sense of possession. He would, he was sure, constantly strive to escape from this. He was doomed to hurt her. She frightened him; her hurt frightened him. Why, he had to know women like Lasca! He could never resist women anyway—golden-brown women; Mary, too, was golden-brown—and a woman like Lasca drew him inevitably to her side. He hadn't, however, seen her again. He had telephoned her twice, only to be mysteriously informed that she was out of the city. He didn't actually want to leave Mary, he tried to tell himself—God knows Lasca, with everything she desired within reach, wouldn't take him very seriously—but he had to teach her that she didn't own him.

There was still another way in which Mary irked him, another direction in which she exercised her sense of possession. Like his father, she was for ever offering him advice, telling him what he must do to get on. These two didn't seem to realize what getting on meant. It had been compara-

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 tively easy for Mary, easy enough, no doubt, even for his father. They couldn't understand how hard it had been for him. They couldn't understand that he had tried. Had he tried? His mind began to wander. What was it all worth, anyway? Why couldn't he fall in line and just be a Nigger, like the rest of the "good" Niggers! . . . And Mary didn't like cabarets and would be disagreeable every time he went to one, and she would be annoyed if he attended prize-fights—he made a mental note that he would see Leanshanks Pescod's next combat. . . and girls, golden-brown girls. What would Mary. . . ?

His landlady rapped on the door. Welcome Fox was a middle-aged woman who had been born on a Tennessee plantation and had come North with her husband, at that time working as a coachman for a family which had moved to New York. He had, in time, drifted away from this connection to drive one of the Victorias that rolled in the old days up and down Fifth Avenue. Two years ago he had died, leaving his wife to care for their dead daughter's two children. Mrs. Fox had always been thrifty, however, and she was accustomed to hard work. In her earlier days she had added to her income by taking in washing and doing simple dressmaking. Now she paid the rent of her apartment by letting some of the rooms. Occasionally, too, she worked out by the day. When she was at home

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French CJ

"the exclusive right to invention, trade marks, designs, trade name and reputation are dealt with in English law as special heads of protected interests and not under a wide generalisation."

It is a common feature of the statutory rights asserted in these proceedings that they are negative in character. As Laddie, Prescott and Vitoria observed :

"Intellectual property is … a purely negative right, and this concept is very important. Thus, if someone owns the copyright in a film he can stop others from showing it in public but it does not in the least follow that he has the positive right to show it himself."

In Pacific Film Laboratories Pty Ltd v Federal Commissioner of Taxation, Windeyer J spoke of the essential nature of a copyright:

"It is not a right in an existing physical thing. It is a negative right, as it has been called, a power to prevent the making of a physical thing by copying."

To similar effect, in relation to patents, was the observation of Lord Herschell LC in Steers v Rogers, quoted with approval by the plurality in The Grain Pool of Western Australia v The Commonwealth :

"The truth is that letters patent do not give the patentee any right to use the invention—they do not confer upon him a right to manufacture according to his invention. That is a right which he would have equally effectually if there were no letters patent at all; only in that case all the world would equally have the right. What the letters patent confer is the right to exclude others from manufacturing in a particular way, and using a particular invention."

The Commonwealth submitted that the property rights associated with the registered trade marks, design, patents and copyright asserted by JTI and BAT


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 she practically lived in the kitchen, although she also reserved a small bedroom for herself and the children.

Come in! Byron cried.

As Mrs. Fox opened the door, whiffs of frying pork-chops and boiled cabbage floated into the room. One of the children clung with a sort of desperation to her ample skirts.

Dere's a gen'mun ter see you, chile, she announced.

Who is it, Mrs. Fox?

Ah doan perzackly recerlec' duh name. It's duh light-coloured gen'mun who comes here frequentlike.

Mr. Sill?

Dat's him. Her pleasant face brightened. Taxis, quit pullin' yo' mammy's skirts. Ah declare dat chil' ain' nebber gwine leab me alone.

Before Dick Sill had removed his overcoat, he blazed forth his news, almost in a tone of defiance.

I'm going white! he announced.

Byron did not speak at once. He didn't know what to say. Presently, he mustered up, Take off your coat, Dick.

Accepting this invitation, his friend seated himself on the bed and nervously lighted a cigarette.

They make us do it, Byron, he insisted, still in an aggressive tone which sounded apologetic. They

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 make us. We don't want to. I don't want to, but they make us.

I know, said Byron. I couldn't do it, but I know.

Buda Green married a white man. That's what got me to thinking. He doesn't know she has coloured blood. I met her on the street one day. Why don't you pass, too, Dick? she asked me. There are ten thousand of us in New York alone. Why don't you come across the line? You're light enough.

Suppose somebody'd give me away, I countered. She laughed at me. They won't do that, she said. Shines love to fool ofays too much for that and when they see you fooling 'em they'll leave you alone. They won't blab on you. You're a boob if you don't come over. Why, I go everywhere with my husband and no one has ever suspected me. Why should they? The world is full of mixed blood, Chinese and English, Indians and American whites, Jews and Spaniards. ..

I read somewhere, said Byron, about a fellow who holds a theory that this. . . this. . . flair the white man has for our women will eventually solve the race problem. We'll all be absorbed in the white race!

Say, I've read a thing or two on the subject myself, cried Dick, still more excitedly. The other day I ran across a book by an English chap named Robert Graves. It's called My Head! My Head!

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 I opened it to these words: There were only two women who loved Moses, and no men. The women were Jochebed, his mother, and the Ethiopian woman, his wife. . . . Say, that startled me and I went back and read from the beginning. I found the book to be a loving, skilful interpretation of the story of Moses, as related by Elisha to the Shunamite woman who was the namesake of Moses's mother. The book explains that it was through the aid of the Ethiopian woman, born near the springs of the Nile, that Moses was enabled to predict the plagues of Egypt, partly through her knowledge of voodoo, partly through advance information she secured from her tribe.

But that's fiction! It isn't in the Bible! Byron cried.

Isn't it just? Well, the first verse of the twelfth chapter of Numbers reads: And Miriam and Aaron spoke against Moses because of the Ethiopian woman whom he married; for he had married an Ethiopian woman. . . . And because Miriam and Aaron objected to her, Dick continued, the Bible tells us that God turned them into lepers. That'll be news for some of these Southern fundamentalists. Apparently there's nothing against miscegenation in Holy Writ. What's more, I looked the lady up in Josephus, and found her there, too, together with her name. Tharbis.

And so you think. . . ?

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 I think that anything Moses did in Egypt a great many of his followers did too. I think. . ..

Surely you're not passing because you've been reading the Bible!

Not at all! It just happened accidentally. You know I recently lost my job. Well, I was searching another. Want-ad-page in hand, I hustled from office to office. Always turned down when I told them I was a Negro. Finally, I went into an office where they were very pleasant to me and the job looked fine. After the man asked me several questions, he engaged me. Then he inquired, You're quite dark. Are you Spanish?

My mother was Spanish, I replied. Do you blame me?

No, I don't, Byron assured him. I couldn't. What kind of job is it?

I'm private secretary. The boss makes frequent trips to Europe. We're sailing, as a matter of fact, in April.

Byron buried his face in his hands and groaned. I don't blame you, Dick, he replied, but I just couldn't do it myself.

A little later, after his friend had departed, Byron drew out a fresh sheet of paper and took up his pencil. He looked out of the window at the blank wall and tried to collect his thoughts. What could he write about? What was there interesting to write about? He couldn't think of a thing.

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Unaccustomed to early rising, Byron had found it practical to purchase an alarm-clock which he had set for six o'clock. When, at the hour appointed, the angry bell jangled in his ears, he turned over and yawned, stretching his arms. Then he tried to doze, but the horrid tocsin still sounded. At last remembering that he had accepted a job in the city and had been ordered to appear at seven-thirty, he forced himself to get out of bed. The room was quite dark and on his way to the gas-burner, he stumbled over a pile of books he had left on the floor. After he had ignited the gas he sponged himself perfunctorily. The touch of the cold water to his flesh, however, revivified him sufficiently to enable him to dress rapidly. He had requested Mrs. Fox to leave the coffee-pot prepared on the stove so that he soon made a steaming cup of coffee. That, together with a couple of slices of bread he had cut and buttered, constituted his breakfast. To his astonishment he discovered that he was not in low spirits. On the contrary, he felt excited. Young and healthy as he was, he was looking forward to the day's work in the light of an adventure.

When, at seven, he emerged from the house, it

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 was beginning to grow lighter, although the sky was shrouded with clouds. Sporadically, he was conscious that a drop of rain beat against his cheek. As he walked briskly towards the nearest elevated station, he fell into what seemed to be an endless procession. The journalistic phrase, two hours passing the grandstand, came into his mind. From all the side-streets, up the avenues, they marched: Negro workmen and working-women, all leaving the walled, black city temporarily to labour in an alien world. Some were bowed and old and walked slowly and with pain. Others were young and sinewy and chattered as they marched rapidly forward. The thought struck him that it was like a symbolic procession, the procession of an oppressed people. Thus the Jews went out into the desert to build pyramids for the Pharaohs. Thus, under the knout, the Russian political prisoners plodded to Siberia. Only, and Byron was quick to sense the distinction, from the eyes of all these people around him peered an expression of hope. They were doing what they had to do before the millennium, the day when the black race would be on a level with the white. It was coming; they all felt that, although the old and the helpless feared they would never live to see it.

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 There was more than hope in these eyes: Byron noted the generally gay insouciance, the careless, carefree manner of these servant-girls, these stevedores and messenger boys. They had a life and independence of their own, that no amount of hardship could take from them. On the whole they were happier, he was sure, than white servant-girls ever could be, doomed, as they were, to drudgery from early morning until they went to bed late at night. Every evening these race sisters of his returned to their families, to their daddies; they refused to "live in." The white world might do its best to rob their days of pleasure, but they could always look forward to the evening.

Byron passed a cabaret that was just closing. Out of the sleepy, yawning jaw of the dive, they came, these young men and women who had been dancing the night through. They, too, joined the procession. They had had no sleep. After a night devoted to gaiety they were returning to take their places as pawns in this strange game of toil that the white world insisted upon playing.

We should all of us be singing, Byron thought, and he wondered what would be appropriate. Onward, Christian Soldiers? Smiling, he rejected Sullivan's hymn. Something of our own: perhaps Walk together, children! Only, he added to himself, we so seldom do walk together in spirit.

Byron had never lived in or visited the South and therefore had never seen a Jim Crow car in his life,

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 but the moving car, in which he was presently standing, must be very much like one, he thought. The procession had crowded into it, together with the other cars that made up the train, although all the seats had already been pre-empted by black workers who had entered at stations further up the line. There were, to be sure, a few white faces, faces of men and women who had come from the upper reaches of the island, but most of the skins were black or brown or mulatto. We should be known as the rainbow race, Byron assured himself.

He marvelled as he reflected that he was bound to a destination similar to that which was the goal of all these others, and yet he was not acquainted with a single person in the car. Perhaps even, he mused, their whole thinking processes, their very ideas, are different. I am no more like them than they are like me, than I am like any of my friends, he assured himself. In temperament and opinions we all disagree. Each of us has his own standard of thought and behaviour and yet we are forced by this prodigious power of prejudice to line up together. To the white world we are a mass. . ..

What would happen to this mass? Might it not be possible that prejudice was gradually creating, automatically and unconsciously, a force that would eventually solidify, in outward opinion at least, a mass that might even assume an aggressive attitude? Or would this mass, under this pressure of prejudice, be dissipated and swept apart?

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 There was Dick. That was one solution, an easy, pleasant solution for people of Dick's complexion, and what Dick had done hundreds had done before him and thousands would do after him. Byron reflected that during the period he had spent in New York he had encountered more and more coloured people who were nearly white. Would the race eventually lose its identity? Was it destined to dissolve in this white blood?

He considered another alternative. When a coloured family moved into an apartment, all the white families fled. When two coloured families moved into a block, the block was deserted by the white occupants. So Harlem, in its African aspects, had been created. So Harlem was slowly growing, east and west, north and south, growing, slowly growing. Might it not eventually happen, as more Negroes, coming from the South, coming from the West, to take advantage of the opportunities promised by this new metropolis, encroached farther and farther on white territory, that Manhattan, which already had been Indian, Dutch, English, and finally the melting-pot for every nation, become a Negro island? Byron chuckled aloud as the vision came to him of the last white inhabitant pushing off in a row boat from the Battery while the black flag flew over the Aquarium and from the roof of every skyscraper. Or would property values in Harlem increase so substantially that it would be practical to sell the land and migrate again? Or would it ever

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 be possible for white and black to live peaceably, side by side, each offering his gifts, one to the other? That consummation, Byron admitted to himself, was not to be immediately hoped for.

Forty-second Street! the guard was shouting. Byron left the car.

The Cletheredge Building was a huge nest of offices towering to the sky in the early forties, its upper storeys resting on a series of graceful terraces. The effect of the front portal, guarded by elaborately carved, sinister, stone dragons, was sombre and portentous. As Byron entered he recalled the device Dante had blazoned over the gates of hell.

In a spacious underground room he discovered a group of young Negroes, laughing, chattering, smoking cigarettes, as they donned their uniforms. In one corner, three boys were shooting craps.

Pull duh chain! one of them cried. Dis heah is duh new boy.

Whah you from? another demanded. Later, Byron identified him as the Joel to whom, the day before, he had been instructed to report.

Harlem, Byron replied.

Ah ain' seen you. Joel regarded the newcomer with suspicion.

Shoot duh fo'! a voice in the corner called.

Stop rollin' dose bones! Joel ordered. Then to Byron, Roll duh babies?

Sometimes.

Well, come along an' git yo' suit. Joel conducted

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 Byron to a locker. Dis one jes' lately been worn by a jig dat's fired. You better lock yo' clothes up. Heah's duh key. Ah can' 'count fo' duh actions an' movements o' dis bunch o' smokes.

As Byron on his bench began to pull off his trousers, the boys on the adjoining benches babbled on. They spoke freely about their amorous adventures, about games of craps, about dives on Lenox Avenue, about Numbers. He listened to accounts of the prowess of Tiger Flowers, of Leanshanks Pescod. To Byron the atmosphere was vaguely distasteful. You want to be a writer, he adjured himself, and this is probably first-class material. Nevertheless, his immediate pendent thought was that he would never write about this life, that he could never feel anything but repugnance for these people, because they were black. I can't bear to think of myself as a part of this, he sighed, and they. ..

Well, presently he knew what they thought. As a couple whispered, they gave sly nods in his direction; they laughed and winked. Soon, they carelessly raised their voices. He caught phrases: posin' an' signifyin', high-toned mustard-seed, arnchy yaller boy, sheik from Strivers' Row. . . Joel rescued him.

Come along, he commanded.

Byron, in his ill-fitting uniform of navy blue, embellished with brass buttons, obeyed. Joel led him to one of the elevators and explained to him how to adjust the lever.

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 Jump in an' ride wid me, he continued. Ah'll show you.

The morning ingress had begun. Brokers, lawyers, stenographers, office boys, were arriving in troops. Byron was amazed to observe the skill with which Joel operated the car, ready with a cheery good-morning for everybody that greeted him, while he slammed the iron gate back and forth at each landing, guiding the car dexterously to an exact level with each floor. All these mancuvres Byron, of course, had seen performed before, but with no comprehension of the difficulties they involved. Occasionally, as the hours wore on, the car would be deserted for a floor or two, and then Joel would permit the novice to manipulate the mechanism himself. Try as he might, however, Byron never seemed to be able to bring the elevator to a level with the landing. He began to regard Joel with a sneaking admiration.

At twelve o'clock Joel suggested, You better go an' git yo' lunch.

Where? Byron inquired. He was bewildered. He knew nothing about the restaurants in the neighbourhood. One might be too expensive; at another they might not admit a Negro.

Didn't you fetch none?

No, Byron replied. I didn't know. . ..

Well, Ah guess one o' duh boys'll give you a bite.

Joel dropped him off at the basement floor.

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 That night as usual Byron called on Mary. He wondered, now that he was working downtown, how he could manage to keep this up and do a little writing also. He would have to plan his hours. Now that his father had stopped his allowance, his wages gave him barely enough money on which to exist. He would be compelled to eschew social recreations until he might succeed in selling a short story.

Well, Olive demanded, as Mary opened the door to let Byron enter, how's the labouring man? I'm going to give you a pail to carry your lunch in. I forgot my lunch today, Byron laughed, and I had to eat out of one of the other fellow's buckets.

What kind are they? Olive inquired.

Oh, all right, I guess. You know. You work downtown.

They're different in different buildings, Olive persisted. What kind are these?

Oh, I guess I could put up with them, Byron responded, but they seem to think I'm putting on airs. My clothes or my English are too good. One of 'em called me an arnchy.

I forgot to warn you, said Howard. You ought to speak in dialect. These low-class smokes haven't any use for a fellow that puts on airs. You have to be a mixer.

Well, I seem to be all wrong, Byron remarked ruefully. I can't begin to speak dialect tomorrow.

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 You can in your next place, Howard suggested significantly.

My next place?

Don't mean maybe. You won't last long after this kind of start. They'll put the rollers under you.

The telephone bell tinkled.

Hello, said Olive, lifting the receiver to her ear. Yes, he's here. Just a moment, please. . . . She pressed her palm against the transmitter. . . Howard, she whispered, it's Mr. Pettijohn.

Hello. Howard was at the telephone. Is that you, Mr. Pettijohn? You want to see me? . . . When? . . . Right away? Well, I don't know about that. I've got a mighty important case on hand. I expect to go over it with my client tonight. . . . That so? . . . Well, I might put him off till ten o'clock and come to see you first. . . . Yes, I'll do that, Mr. Pettijohn. . . . Howard was speaking with decision. . . . At your house? All right, I'll be right around.

Replacing the receiver, he whirled about to face the room.

Hurray! he cried. Hurray! I've hooked Pettijohn at last. He's had a row with Mainwaring and fired him. Why, the King has more law business than any one else in Harlem!

Olive was screaming with laughter. Gee, how well you bluffed him, Howard! Got to meet an-

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 other client! And the King a gambler, too!

How much are you going to make? was her next question.

I don't know. Enough for wedding bells, I hope. Howard was drawing on his coat. Perhaps we'll even buy a struggle-buggy.

I'm going with you, Olive cried as she raced to her bedroom. Where does he live? she called.

It isn't far. Hundred and—twenty-seventh Street.

Olive had returned with her cloak. I'll walk down with you, she said. I need the air. Besides, she added, I think I'll wait on the kerb till you come out. I've got to be the first to hear the big news.

The pair swung out of the room.

Byron stared at Mary. Pretty soft for Howard, he remarked bitterly. Pretty soft.

Mary tried to console him. I'm sorry that it isn't you, dear, she said, but remember that Howard's worked years for this. Think of all the time he spent in law school, and he's been out nearly a year without getting an important case.

Pretty slow, Byron groaned. He was standing now. To go from college directly to an elevator! I guess that'll lift me all right!

Don't! she begged him, raising his hand to her lips, Please don't!

Byron, she went on, I don't like this job of yours.

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 What else can I do?

We've got to find something. I know you've tried hard enough, but the whole world can't be prejudiced. Mr. Sumner said. ..

That snob! I don't want any of his help!

Byron!

I mean it. They've never asked me to their place since that night I met you there.

But why should they ask you, Byron?

They don't pay any attention to me. I suppose I'm not good enough for them.

Don't be silly. Mr. Sumner is far from being a snob. How can you expect him to find time to see everybody he knows? He's a very busy man, Byron, and you are probably one of a thousand young men who need his help. Do you expect him to be nice to them all? Be reasonable. It's your place to look him up.

Never. . . . He knows my father, he added lamely.

He knows mine too. Father stopped there the last time he was in town, but I don't ever expect to be invited there more than twice a year. They have too many obligations to be constantly attentive to everybody. You mustn't be so sensitive, she pleaded, rubbing his palm against her cheek. I've seen so many awful things happen through sensitiveness. Why, Mr. Sumner isn't even thinking about you. He's probably forgotten your very ex-

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 istence, and you believe he's consciously snubbing you. If you went to see him I'm sure he'd be delighted.

Roughly withdrawing his hand, Byron stalked across the floor. You don't give a damn about me yourself or you wouldn't be defending him! he cried, exasperated.

Byron, you ought to know how much I love you. I don't have to prove that, do I?

Funny kind of love! Always explaining to me why I ought to let somebody insult me! You don't talk to Howard this way, I notice.

I'm perhaps a little more interested in you than I am in Howard, she flamed, adding, Besides Howard doesn't need advice.

Oh, Howard's perfect, I suppose! I don't give a damn how interested you are in me if you always take somebody else's part.

I'll take yours when you deserve it. You're wrong about Mr. Sumner. You're behaving in a very silly manner and I'm going to tell you so whether you like it or not.

Fine way to spend an evening, Byron shouted. After working hard all day I come here when I ought to be home writing, and all I get is abuse.

I haven't noticed that you did so much writing before you took this job.

I haven't had a chance. You know I've been looking for work all the time.

Never play pool, do you? Or go to the Com-

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 monwealth Club? Or call on Mrs. Sartoris? None of your God damn business what I do! Catching up his coat and hat, he flung the door open, and rushing out, slammed it behind him. As he raced down the hallway, he could hear her call out his name despairingly, but he did not turn back.

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Byron discovered that Howard had made a correct prognostication. Notwithstanding the fact that he soon found it possible to handle an elevator with almost as much skill as his instructor, at the end of the week he lost his job. Probably Joel had told the superintendent that he wouldn't do. Again began the weary round of employment agencies and office buildings. Again he was forced to endure bitter humiliation, although Byron vaguely realized that this humiliation was largely a matter of his own imagination, stimulated by his touchiness. Moreover his heart, never completely engaged, was no longer in the business, more especially because his father had been kind enough to send him another cheque—for a higher amount this time—without a word of advice or complaint.

He wished that he might look for as much understanding from Mary. It seemed impossible for them to meet without quarrelling. After several of these disagreements he was aware to some degree that what had happened was more his fault than hers. He was, in many ways, devoted to Mary, but she had become too critical of his actions, too demanding. Why couldn't she understand that a

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 fellow had to grow? Cool reflection often informed him that she did, that she was trying her best to be fair, but when he was with her he resented this attitude more than anything else. How dare she try to be fair? He was enraged by this patronage, this condescension, as it seemed to him.

Sooner or later his thoughts obstinately reverted to Lasca. She had understanding. She, he felt certain, would give him sympathy. She was a real man's woman. He telephoned her more than once, but invariably received the message that she was still out of town and it was not known when she would return.

To rid himself of his recurring fits of depression, it became his habit to visit a pool-room where he could be sure of meeting fellows who were glad to see him, especially if he could pay for a drink. They often would go on to a cabaret to sit and talk or dance until late in the morning and it would be afternoon before he had summoned enough energy to start out on a renewed quest of employment.

Naturally his writing lagged. Sometimes he would sit before his table for an hour, striving to string words together. Nothing would come of this effort. His mind, he believed, was in too much of a turmoil, life disturbed him too much, to permit calm thinking and calm thinking was essential to a writer; he knew that. Further, there was the fundamental and disturbing question of a suitable subject. He seemed unable to assemble his mate-

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 rial neatly, to select it. At college it had been different. There he had not tried to create fiction. He had written about plays he had seen in the theatre, incidents he had observed in the street. Here he saw too much, too much and too little. The habits of these people were both too familiar and too annoying to him. He loathed his landlady and her grandchildren. They were so good-hearted and so sordid. He had hated his working companions at the Cletheredge Building. They reminded him too painfully of his birthright. More than the others he detested the young Negro writers who were making names for themselves. Mary often pleaded with him to see more of them, but he always sullenly refused. He could not bear to think that they were getting on while he was still struggling at the foot of the ladder.

Unexpectedly one night, however, the scheme of a story came to him quite spontaneously—it had been suggested by an item in a newspaper. Elated, he immediately rushed to Mary to tell her the news. When he greeted her he was out of breath from running upstairs.

Whatever is the matter, Byron? she demanded, after she had kissed him.

I've got a wonderful idea for a story, Mary! he announced, puffing.

That's fine, dearest. Tell me about it.

He sat down to consider. The details were not

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 yet clear in his mind, although the main outline was there.

You see, he began, I'll have a white boy who frequents Harlem cabarets pick up a coloured girl and have an affair with her. He goes to see her all the time. Then, you see, this boy has a sister who works in a settlement house. One day she meets an intelligent, young coloured man engaged in the same work. They become interested in each other and eventually decide to marry. You see, they love one another. . . Byron hesitated.

Well? Mary inquired.

Don't you know what would happen? The white boy had regarded such relations on a different plane. He didn't mind seducing a coloured girl. The fact that she loved him didn't affect his point of view. It was just fun, not to be taken seriously. But his sister's desire was different. The idea that his sister could bring herself to marry a coloured fellow, even though he is educated and they love each other, is so horrible to him that he shoots his sister's fiancé.

There was silence for a moment.

It isn't just the sort of thing I expected you to write, Byron dear, Mary remarked presently, but go ahead with it and see what you can do.

What do you mean by saying it's not the sort of thing you expected me to write? He flared up at once.

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 Don't get excited, Byron. . . . She still hesitated. At last she went on difffidently. These propaganda subjects are very difficult, Byron, difficult, that is, to make human. It is hard to keep them from becoming melodramatic, cheap even. Unless such a story is written with an exquisite skill, it will read like a meretricious appeal to the emotions arising out of race prejudice.

And you don't think I can do it! Byron was furious.

I didn't say that, dearest. I didn't say that at all. I don't know whether you can do it or not, but I think it would be safer if you wrote about something you know more about.

Don't you think I know anything about this? I've just told you the story, haven't I?

It isn't the story that counts; it's the treatment. . . . Mary was speaking very softly. . . . Of course, you'll understand the psychology of the intelligent coloured man, but as you have related the story, he would be one of the least important characters. In a way, too, I suppose you'd get the coloured woman's point of view, but that's more difficult. I don't think you'd comprehend the motives of the white characters at all. You know it won't be so easy to explain the white girl's attitude, that is, so that her actions will seem credible to readers.

I didn't say it would be easy, he growled, but you don't need to exaggerate the difficulty.

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 Dear Byron, I'm just talking it over with you. I want to help you. What is her attitude?

Why, she loves the man!

Of course, but you've got to make readers believe that, believe, moreover that she's willing to brave race-prejudice and conventions that have risen from it. There's her family, for instance. . ..

God! he shouted. I don't get anything but discouragement out of you! At the same time he made a mental note that he must put the girl's father in the story.

Byron, she pleaded, please don't quarrel with me again. I can't bear it.

He was drawing on his overcoat and she grasped the sleeve in a pitiful gesture of appeal.

It seems, she went on sadly, that all we do lately is quarrel.

So it seems. He set his face hard.

Byron, I love you so much. I only want to help you. Won't you let me?

I don't want any of your help.

Byron!

You're ashamed of me because I'm not getting on as well as Howard!

Byron, please!

And you think Rudolph Fisher's a great writer because he's published a rotten story or two in the Atlantic!

She was silent.

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 I'll be damned if I'm going to stand your nagging any longer. I guess I know what I can do better than you do. You'll see! Wait till you read my story in a magazine! Then you'll be sorry.

Sorry! Dearest, I'll be delighted.

Sure you will. . . not! Let me go.

Byron, for once, be reasonable.

Let me go!

He tore away from her grasp and out of the door which he slammed behind him, but this time he felt a trifle ashamed of himself and lingered, hesitant, in the hallway, hoping, perhaps, that she would call him back. No sound, however, came from within. Tiptoeing to the door, he applied his ear to the keyhole. She was not crying; he could hear nothing. She really didn't love him at all. She just wanted to possess him, to own him, to boss him. He strode away in a renewed fit of fury and this time he did not turn back.

In his present mood he had no desire to return to his sordid hole in the wall. Finding a couple of dollars in his pocket, he determined to visit the Black Venus. He wanted to be cheered up and at this cabaret there was always excitement of some kind. Perhaps Irwin would be there, or Lucas Garfield. Perhaps a new golden-brown girl. He felt he wanted to be unfaithful to Mary, to degrade her ideal. He wanted to throw mud at everything she stood for. He'd like to tell her about it afterwards.

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 Preparing to descend the stairs that led to the cabaret, he was violently pushed aside. Two waiters were forcing a man out into the street. As they brushed past him Byron turned to see them deliver a final kick in the fellow's buttocks. Landing with a thud in the muddy gutter, the victim lay inert, apparently insensible. Byron felt sick. Life was so cruel. For the moment he experienced a pang of compassion for this stranger. I might be that man, he said to himself with a gush of self-pity.

In the dance hall his mood changed perceptibly. The room was crowded; all the tables were occupied with gay men and women, laughing, drinking. A yellow girl in red with a megaphone was making the rounds of the tables. As he stood, hesitating by the doorway, wondering if he could find a place, she shouted her song in his ear:

I'll be three times God damned if I will! Byron gritted his teeth as he surrendered his coat to the girl in the check-room.

Dawggone, ef that ain't the cat's kanittans! a fat, cheerful-looking black man near him exclaimed.

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 Bardacious! agreed his companion.

Byron heard his name called: Dick was advancing towards him.

Hello, old chap!

Hello yourself! cried Byron, grasping his friend's hand. What in the world are you doing here?

Slumming. Brought some friends up with me. Come and sit with us. We've got plenty of gin.

I'd be glad to. I was wondering where I would sit. He hesitated before he inquired. Are you white or coloured tonight?

Buckra, of course. And so are my friends, but they'll be delighted to meet you. They've heard about the New Negro! Dick grinned.

Well, Byron replied, I don't feel very new tonight. I feel more like Old Black Joe. However, I'll do the best I can for your patronizing friends.

Dick was more sober at once. I didn't mean that, he assured Byron. They're not a bit that sort. They honestly, seriously want to meet some people, and I didn't know a soul in the place before you came.

Look at duh spagingy-spagade talkin' wid duh fagingy-fagade, Byron heard a voice behind him say.

Out fo' a little hootchie-pap, Ah pre-sume, another voice commented.

Well, evidently they don't see behind the mask even here, Byron said. He was in a better humour.

Of course not, Dick replied as he took his friend's

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 arm and led him to the table. His companions turned out to be Rusk Baldwin, the well-known columnist, and Roy McKain, the novelist. Byron recognized both names at once.

I can't see, McKain averred to Byron, after a few trivial remarks had passed back and forth, how fellows like you find anybody to talk to up here. Just look around! I'll bet you're the only college man in the place.

Oh, Byron knows a few, Dick remarked with a wink.

Well, it's wonderful up here, Baldwin exclaimed. I had no idea it would be like this. It's as wild as a jungle. Look at that waiter dancing the Charleston up the floor.

I don't see how he holds that tray of glasses, the novelist said. He doesn't spill a drop.

This remark reminded Dick that he had forgotten as yet to fill his friend's glass. He supplied his omission.

Can you Charleston, Mr. Kasson? Baldwin inquired.

Not very well, Byron responded.

McKain regarded him with unfeigned amazement. Why, he asserted, I thought all coloured people could dance the Charleston, didn't you, Dick?

I don't know much about it, was Dick's answer.

McKain poured out half a glass of gin and filled the receptacle to the brim with ginger ale. His enthusiasm mounted, soared.

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 I think you are a wonderful people, he announced, a perfectly wonderful people! Such verve and vivacity! Such dancing! Such singing! And I've always thought coloured people were lazy! I suppose, he added reflectively, that it's because you're all so happy. That's it, Rusk, he cried, they're all so happy!

Do you know the poems of a young coloured fellow named Langston Hughes? Baldwin demanded of Byron.

Yes, I do.

Well, I thought they were good before I came up here, but he's just a bus-boy or something like that, and he doesn't understand his race. Listen to this:

Well, I thought that was good, Baldwin repeated laughing, but now I see it's only bus-boy bunk. He don't understand his race.

I should say not, McKain agreed.

I took the trouble to learn it too, Baldwin con-

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 tinued. I thought it was good. Let's see, how does it go on?

Bunk, echoed McKain. Bunk. It isn't a bit like that.

The entertainer had at last arrived at their table. Swaying back and forth, her eyes obliquely surveying the room, her mind apparently a vacuum, she howled through her megaphone:

Pleasing sentiment, Baldwin remarked. How much shall I give her? he demanded of Byron.

Oh, half a dollar. A quarter. It doesn't matter.

McKain took out his purse and extracted a dollar bill.

Roy! some one across the room hailed him.

Why, there's Dana Paton, McKain cried. He's calling us over. He dragged Baldwin away with him.

They mean all right, Byron, Dick assured his friend apologetically.

I suppose they do, Byron replied, but I've had a

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 hell of a day and I guess I'm more nervous than usual. They're not bad. . . for ofays, he added.

His friend gave him a close scrutiny. You'd pass for Spanish or Portuguese, he assured him. Why don't you come over? There's no good bucking the game. It isn't worth it.

Byron's lip curled. I couldn't, he responded. I just couldn't. I don't blame you, or any one else who does, but I couldn't. I guess I haven't got the guts.

What you're doing requires more guts.

Don't let's talk about it, Byron urged impatiently.

As the music stopped, the laughter rose and fell. An atmosphere of fate hovered over the place, as if something were going to happen that nobody could prevent. Behind them a man sang softly to his companion:

Ha! Ha!

Now an amber searchlight shot across the room. The jazz band vomited, neighed, barked, and snorted and the barbaric ceremony began.

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 Dick pointed to a sinewy figure, fantastically garbed, making his way from the entrance across the floor. Look! he exclaimed. That's the Scarlet Creeper!

Who's he? Byron inquired.

Haven't you heard of the famous Creeper? Why he's the most celebrated character along Lenox Avenue. Lives off women, a true Eastman. He's the sheik of the dives, Anatole Longfellow by name.

As the Creeper eased past the dancers—so slinking and catlike was his gait that walking would scarcely describe it—they edged away from him, although there was a whispered recognition from nearly every couple in the hall. It was apparent that his entrance had caused a sensation and it was also quite evident that he was very contented with his reception. People might not speak to him, but they spoke about him. The Creeper was accompanied by a sinister, hunchback dwarf with a wizened, wrinkled, black face like a monkey's, the chin discoloured by a tetter, the head glowing with bushy, laniferous, silver hair. As the pair seated themselves at a recently deserted table adjoining that occupied by Byron and Dick three waiters immediately Charlestoned up.

This obviously explains the origin of the phrase "dancing attendance," Dick remarked.

The Creeper gave his orders in a consequential manner and the waiters hastened away to execute his

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 commands. Byron and Dick were in a position where they might observe the fellow without seeming to do so. Apparently, he was making some faint effort to control his tone, but in order to make himself heard over the tipsy dignity of the jazz band, he was obliged to raise his voice which, moreover, was placed so excellently forward in his mouth that its resonance was double that of the ordinary organ.

Dat Nigger ain' got long ter live, the Creeper was announcing.

The hunchback cringed in mock dismay, as he rubbed his hands together and smiled his approval. Then, making a significant gesture with his right middle finger around his throat, he croaked, Ah bet you cut him every way but loose.

Carvin's too good fo' an achin' pain lak him. Ah'll git him wid a gun.

The hunchback rolled his eyes until only the whites were visible, the while he licked his thick, black lips with his fat, red tongue.

No man steal mah gal an' live, the Creeper went on. Dey'll soon be throwin' dirt in his face.

Dat Ruby's one God damn fool, the leering dwarf contributed. One God damn fool! he repeated, wagging his head savagely from side to side. He was almost in ecstasy.

The waiter returned with the drinks which he deposited on the table. The Creeper, having filled his own glass, contemptuously bestowed a few drops in that of his companion.

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 was on the point of retreating in the other. Fingal fends Ullin his bard to encourage him with a war wong, but notwithstanding Swaran prevails; and Gaul and his army are obliged to give way. Fingal, descending from the hill, rallies them again: Swaran desists from the pursuit, possesses himself of a rising ground, restores the ranks, and waits the approach of Fingal. The king, having encouraged his men, gives the necessary orders, and renews the battle. Cuchullin, who, with his friend Connal, and Carril his bard, had retired to the cave of Tura, hearing the noise, came to the brow of the hill, which overlooked the field of battle, where he saw Fingal engaged with the enemy. He, being hindered by Connal from joining Fingal, who was himself upon the point of obtaining a complete victory, sends Carril to congratulate that hero on his success.

B. V.

In the mean time Fingal and Swaran meet; the combat is described: Swaran is overcome, bound and delivered over as a prisoner to the care of Ossian and Gaul the son of Morni; Fingal, his younger sons, and Oscar, still pursue the enemy. The episode of Orla a chief of Lochlin, who was mortally wounded in the battle, is introduced. Fingal, touched with the death of Orla, orders the pursuit to be discontinued; and calling his sons together, he is informed that Ryno, the youngest of them, was killed. He laments his death, hears the story of Lamdarg and Gelchossa, and returns towards the place where he had left Swaran. Carril, who had been sent by Cuchullin to congratulate Fingal on his victory, comes in the mean time to Ossian. The conversation of the two poets closes the action of the fourth day.

B. VI.

Night comes on. Fingal gives a feast to his army, at which Swaran is present. The king commands Ullin his bard to give the


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 Well, whispered Byron, it looks bad for somebody.

Nothing but cheap boasting, Dick retorted. These shines that live off women are all cowards. He won't do a damn thing.

The Creeper had swirled into a dance with a handsome mulatto. His palms were flat across her shoulders, his slender fingers spread apart. There was an ancient impiety about the sensual grace of their united movement.

Take your eyes off the golden-brown, Dick warned, laughing.

You know my type!

It wouldn't take long to learn that.

Byron turned to his companion and looked at him earnestly. Dick, I want to ask you something, he said. Now. . . now. . . that you've gone white, do you really want. . . pinks for boody?

Dick averted his eyes. That's the worst of it, he groaned. I just don't. Give me blues every time.

Baldwin and McKain rejoined them.

Talking to a fellow who's making drawings, the novelist explained. God, but this place is great! I could live up here. Is all Harlem like this?

The question awakened a swarm of perverse, dancing images in Byron's brain. They crowded about each other, all the incongruities, the savage inconsistencies, the peculiar discrepancies, of this cruel, segregated life.

Yes, he replied, I suppose it is.

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Thoroughly ashamed of himself the next morning, Byron telephoned Mary, but the conversation was necessarily so unsatisfactory that in a measure he reverted to his recalcitrant mood. He knew full well, of course, that she could not speak freely over the telephone at the library, but even while his reason excused her, he was incapable of making the proper emotional adjustment. I'll show her, he assured himself. I'll show her. So he bowed his head over the blank sheet of paper lying before him on the table for the first time with a really vital interest in the undertaking.

He worked hard, in fact, all day, with a short respite for lunch—batter-bread and chittlings, which Mrs. Fox prepared for him—and by night had managed to turn out five or six pages of copy which he read over to himself not without satisfaction. He went out for dinner, but returned at an early hour to continue his labour throughout the evening. He passed another day in the same energetic manner. He found he could work like a demon once his interest and attention were won. By the close of the second day he had completed what he considered an extremely adequate version of the tale he had set himself to write.

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 He called on Mary that evening to tell her what he had done and for the first time in weeks they didn't quarrel.

I am so happy, dear, she said, and there were tears in her eyes.

Let me read it to you.

I'd love to have you.

After he had concluded the reading, she said, I am so proud of you, Byron. What are you going to do with it now?

He kissed her and explained, I'm going to take it to the Age office. I know a fellow over there who owns a machine he will let me use. After it's typed I'm going to send it to one of the big magazines.

I wish you all the luck in the world.

In a fever to get the manuscript off, he kissed her good-bye, and rushed away to the newspaper office. Later that night he mailed his typewritten story to a prominent magazine, enclosing, as he had been advised to do, a stamped and self-addressed envelope providing for its return in the unthinkable event of its refusal.

In two days it came back accompanied by a printed slip: Rejection of material does not imply lack of merit, etc. He carried this dejectedly to Mary, all his confidence gone.

Don't be discouraged, Byron dear, she urged him. Send it somewhere else. You may have to send it to a dozen magazines before it is accepted. See what the slip says. Doubtless the rejection is due

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 to the fact that the editor has more copy piled up than he can use.

He followed her advice; apparently, there was no alternative procedure. 'Two days later, on his way out, he found the fat, white envelope in the box, and in the envelope another printed formula of rejection. This incident was repeated several times.

Meanwhile his funds were running low and it was paramount for him to discover some means of augmenting his income. He was too proud to appeal to the Sumners or any other of his father's successful friends. He could not bear to let them know that he needed any assistance.

One night while the girls were dressing preparatory to going out, he found himself alone with Howard in the little sitting-room.

Old fellow, Howard began, diffidently enough, you know I'm going to make a barrel of money now that I'm Pettijohn's attorney. I've already received a considerable advance. Won't you let me lend you a hundred?

Howard too! Everybody patronized him.

I don't need your money, he replied stiffly. I can get along all right by myself.

Howard was not to be so easily repulsed. See here, old boy, he insisted, you can't talk to me like that. If I needed it and you had it, I'd come to you. What have you got your back up for?

Byron's back was no longer up. He broke down

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 and cried, his arms sprawled across the table.

He accepted the money.

Again began the weary round. Every day he went through the agony of visiting the employment agencies, searching, searching. Some firms refused to employ a Negro. When they were tolerant in this respect it often happened that he was ignorant of the technique of the business. Occasionally a prospective employer found him too well dressed, too well educated. We just want Southern darkies who are willing to work, was the tactful explanation. It was no good to give these individuals assurance of his readiness to comply. Sometimes they considered him too dark in colour; at other times, too light.

Once Mary tried to help. Discovering that a certain professor engaged in research work needed a secretary, she urged him to send for Byron, but the professor had not been warned and when he greeted Byron with, So you're the young man Mary Love has recommended, Byron stormed out of the office and refused to return. As a result of this incident he had another furious scene with Mary. Thereafter, she made no further attempt to aid him.

During this period there were recurrent nights of dissipation, cabarets, sessions in pool-rooms and at the Commonwealth Club, drink, and occasionally, casual golden-browns.

At last one morning, making his invariable search in the mail-box, he found a letter. The envelope

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 was stamped with the name of the latest magazine to which he had dispatched his story. As he tore the flap open, his fingers trembled. He read the contents over at least twenty times.

Little Byron play on your harp! he cried aloud, and then tore down the street towards the library. He found Mary at her desk.

Mary! Mary! he cried, thrusting the letter in her face.

She read it at a glance.

Byron, she exclaimed, this is simply wonderful!

You didn't read it, he complained.

Why, of course, I did.

Well, read it again.

She obeyed him, to please him, scanning it more carefully this time, as if it were couched in obscure terms.

I'm so proud of you, she assured him.

You said I couldn't do it. You didn't believe in me. I told you I'd show you.

I hoped you could do it, Byron. You can't realize how delighted I am that you have succeeded. When are you going to see him?

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 Now! He says at my earliest convenience. At once! This minute! Good-bye! I'll call you up later. He rushed out of the library.

A half-hour later he walked into the office of the American Mars and asked the boy at the desk if he might see the editor. The boy responded by pushing a blank form across the desk with the nonchalant instruction, Fill that out. Byron obeyed. The boy disappeared with the slip of paper, to return presently with the invitation, Follow me.

Byron had not expected to meet so young a man. Russett Durwood possessed the sort of round, kind face to which widows might confide their secrets. His eyes were the colour that painters employ to suggest spring skies. His light-brown hair was parted in the middle smoothly over his heavy brow. His ears were prominent features. Between the fingers of his right hand he held a large, unlighted, black cigar which he flourished as he talked, or else sucked meditatively. His feet were planted on his scrupulously clean desk.

Shaking hands with Byron, he invited him to sit down.

I asked you to come in about your story, Durwood began in his resonant and cheerful voice.

Yes, Byron replied, with such eagerness that the tone trembled.

Durwood turned away and gazed out of the window. The view, terraces piled on terraces, was cer-

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 tainly worthy of his attention. Presently, he looked back at the figure before him.

I am very much interested in Negro literature; that's why I sent for you, the editor continued. He appeared to be in no manner of hurry, but Byron made no reply. . . . Also, Durwood went on, after a pause, when I see a fellow with talent going the wrong way, I try to be honest. It pays better in the end. It's more useful to you, too, he said, at once giving his remarks a more personal slant. Byron felt his heart thumping. . . . What I want to know is this: why in hell don't you write about something you know about? Without waiting for a response, he continued rapidly, I happen to be acquainted to some extent with Negro life. I am proud to call certain Negroes my friends. I have visited Harlem in two capacities, as a customer in the cabarets and as a guest in my friends' homes. The whole place, contrary to the general impression, is overrun with fresh, unused material. Nobody has yet written a good gambling story; nobody has touched the outskirts of cabaret life; nobody has gone into the curious subject of the divers tribes of the region. Why, there are West Indians and Abyssinian Jews, religious Negroes, pagan Negroes, and Negro intellectuals, all living together more or less amicably in the same community, each group with its own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living; each individual with his own opinions and atmosphere and manner of living. But

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French CJ

involve "a statutory assurance of exclusive use, not a positive right or authority to use." On that basis the imposition of restrictions on their use would take nothing away from the rights granted. Therefore, it was submitted, no property had been taken by the TPP Act. BAT stigmatised that argument as formalistic, observing that rights of exclusion are of the essence of all proprietary rights. Plainly, not all property rights are defined only by rights of exclusion. In law the term "property" generally refers to "a legal relationship with a thing" and in many cases is helpfully described as "a bundle of rights". However, BAT correctly submitted that rights to exclude others from using property have no substance if all use of the property is prohibited.

The Commonwealth's submission points to a characteristic of the plaintiffs' asserted rights which may be relevant in determining, inter alia, whether or not they can be said to have been the subject of acquisition in terms of any benefit that could be said to have accrued to the Commonwealth. That consideration does not involve an acceptance of the proposition that rights were not taken in the sense that JTI and BAT were deprived of their ability to enjoy the fruits of their statutory monopolies.

BAT complained of acquisition of its goodwill. The concept of goodwill as property, and its characterisation as property or a proprietary right, arise in different contexts, discussed at length in the joint judgment in Federal Commissioner of Taxation v Murry. As their Honours pointed out :

"Goodwill is correctly identified as property, therefore, because it is the legal right or privilege to conduct a business in substantially the same manner and by substantially the same means that have attracted custom to it." (footnote omitted)


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 I find that Negroes don't write about these matters; they continue to employ all the old cliches and formulas that have been worried to death by Nordic blonds who, after all, never did know anything about the subject from the inside. Well, if you young Negro intellectuals don't get busy, a new crop of Nordics is going to spring up who will take the trouble to become better informed and will exploit this material before the Negro gets around to it. Do you know why I sent you a letter instead of merely returning your manuscript with a rejection slip? he inquired suddenly.

Byron shook his head.

It's because I believe you can write. Why, the passage describing the white lad's emotions when he learns about his sister's engagement is positively Conradian. It's marvellously done, not a word too much or too little. Full of suggestion and psychologically true. You must have spent a lot of time with white people to understand them so well.

Byron looked blank.

Too much time, Durwood added, chewing savagely at the end of his cigar. The coloured parts, on the other hand, are terrible. Why don't you learn something about your people? A Methodist cab-driver would hoot at your prostitute. She's as solemn as a column-conductor. Your Negro intellectual is a little better, but I must say that although my personal acquaintance with Negro intellectuals is somewhat broad, I've never met one before who

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 was made entirely out of wood. This hero of yours is as pious as the pope, so damned good that he becomes absolutely idiotic. He speaks in platitudes and when he walks the hinges in his legs creak. Now just look at this page. . . . Durwood opened the manuscript. . . Did you ever read the Rollo books?

No sir.

Well, you don't need to. You've written one yourself on this page. God, boy, let your characters live and breathe! Give 'em air. Let 'em react to life and talk and act naturally. You've got an idea here, but it's a dangerous idea. Damned hard not to make it melodrama or cheap propaganda. Hardly an experienced writer in the whole world would dare tackle it. I can't think of any one who could make a go of it. Let me see. . . He appeared to be reflecting. . . No, I can't think of any one. Well, that's what I mean. Select a subject you're full of, inside and out, and then consider carefully whether it's a subject safe for an inexperienced writer to handle. You must have a hundred better ideas in your head. Are you a college man?

Yes, I am.

I thought so. Writers should never go to college. It does 'em up for two years after they get out. They think in terms of the professors and remember all the rotten rules. Bunk! Pishposh!

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 But you must have some life of your own. Do you live in Harlem?

Yes.

I wouldn't have believed it! Ever been to a cabaret?

Many times.

Well, that I can't believe! Jean Cocteau could have done a cabaret better without ever having heard of such a dive. Your scene reads like a description of a Baptist sociable for the new minister. You'll have to learn to be more observing. This story obviously is not autobiographical. Why don't you write about some experience of your own?

I don't think anything very interesting ever happens to me.

All the better! Nothing like a dull life as the inspiration for fine fiction. Huysmans constructed a whole novel around the birth of a calf and the death of a cat. But, good God, man, if you object to dulness in literature, look around you. Harlem life isn't dull. It has more aspects than a diamond has facets. Do you know anything about Marcus Garvey?

Not very much, I'm afraid.

That's a pity. . . Durwood sighed. . . I'd like to find a good character study of him. Well, it doesn't matter. There's plenty of other copy. There's the servant-girl, for instance. Nobody has ever done the Negro servant-girl, who refuses to

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 "live in." Washing dishes in the day-time, she returns at night to her home in Harlem where she smacks her daddy in the jaw or else dances and makes love. On the whole I should say she has the best time of any domestic servant in the world. Know anything about the fast set?

Not very much.

Too bad you don't know more. The Negro fast set does everything the Long Island fast set does, plays bridge, keeps the bootlegger busy, drives around in Rolls-Royces, and commits adultery, but it is vastly more amusing than the Long Island set for the simple reason that it is amused.

After all, the main thing is to use your eyes and your brain. Why, Roy McKain visited Harlem just once and then brought me in a capital yarn about a Negro pimp. I don't suppose he even saw the fellow. Probably just made him up, imagined him, but his imagination was based on a background of observation. The milieu is correct. The story is credible. It jumps ahead; it lives. I'm featuring it in the June number.

Durwood yawned. Well, I don't suppose I've got anything more to say to you. I don't want to flatter you, because I honestly believe you ought to have your throat cut for turning in such an atrocity as this story, but it's an actual fact that I haven't wasted so much time giving an author advice in the last three years. I usually take 'em or leave 'em. There's no good arguing with authors. A sour

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 and disorderly bunch. However, when I read that passage in your tale, I said to myself. That boy's got something if he can see the light.

Go home now, tear up everything you've written, and begin afresh. Pray and get drunk. Send me something else some time when you've decided to become a regular author and not a pseudo-literary fake. Good morning.

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How he got out of that office, out of that building, Byron never knew. He was only conscious that he was striding rapidly up Sixth Avenue. His head was whirling with a confusion of emotions; disappointment dominated them, cruel heartbreaking disappointment. He began to feel sorry for himself. Self-pity surged into his heart. Why should he, who had talent and energy, he who had tried to do something worth while, be made to suffer, to eat mud? He treated me that way because I am a Negro! was his subsequent passionate conclusion. He wouldn't dare talk like that to a white man. His fury was a flame that scorched him.

Suddenly he stood still. Should he go back? Should he tell Durwood what he thought of him? What good? He realized his impotence. They wouldn't let him in the office. He was a Negro and he was alone. Groaning, he burned to summon up a mob to stamp out this proud, haughty white world. He yearned to tear New York apart stone by stone, to level the houses one by one, to trample these white fiends under foot.

Stumping along the sidewalk, an old Negro with

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 a long white beard approached with the aid of a cane. Uncle Tom! Old Black Joe! One of those damn conciliatory Niggers who "knew their places," who conformed.

He became aware that his hand still grasped the envelope containing his story. Should he destroy it? What was the use of his writing? No chance. No opportunity. Nothing but work on an elevator for such as he!

When he thought of Mary, fiery demons danced before his eyes: she had been the first to try to discourage him. She had told him first what this swine in a swivel-chair had just thrown in his face. He had promised to telephone her. He'd be damned if he would keep that promise. He'd be glad to rot in hell if he ever wanted to see her silly Madonna face again, always so superior. She sneered, that's what she did, she sneered. He was through.

He strode on, automatically, knowing neither where nor why. Faster and faster he paced up the Avenue. What could he do next? He was no manual labourer. He had proved himself a failure at that. Why, no one would even give him a job. Too damn swell to be a longshoreman and not swell enough for any position for which his education fitted him. Wrong colour.

Just another Nigger, and so they push, and buffet, and kick me about. Go live somewhere else and do something else! Where? What? Mary wanted

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 him to know the Sumners. God damn snobs, that's what they were! God damn snobs! He hated them all, black and white alike. All conspiring to effect his downfall. All ready to give him one more hard knock. No help, no hope, anywhere. Just another Nigger!

At Fifty-ninth Street an altercation between two street-vendors arrested his attention. Their carts were drawn up one behind the other close to the kerb, and the great white horse attached to the inferior cart was placidly munching the bright crimson heads of the potted geraniums on the forward cart. The florist, an Italian, was screaming with rage, hurling unintelligible epithets at the little Jew who owned the white horse. The Jew laughed and made no effort to back his cart. Suddenly the Italian drew a long knife from his belt and plunged it to the hilt into the breast of the animal. The beast groaned sickishly and shuddered, but did not fall. The blood gushed out in a great red stream, like water from a hydrant. Blood! Blood! It flooded the pavement. The sheeny was screaming. A crowd collected. They were pounding the dago.

Byron stumbled on. The day, though bright with sunshine, was cold, the air brisk and stiffening, but Byron was so hot that he removed his overcoat. Blood! He thought he was going to vomit. Blood and cruelty.

He was in an impasse. He could think of no

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 solution save to go back home and confess himself a failure and that in itself would be no solution. That meant that he had to begin all over again somewhere else in this heartless world of blacks, near whites, and whites. This world where they stabbed horses who were eating geraniums. Flinging himself on a Park bench, he buried his face in his hands.

He was awakened by a cry which his subconsciousness warned him was addressed to him. He looked up to stare at a halted automobile. In the open doorway eyes flashed under a sable toque and a gloved hand beckoned. He did not recognize what he could see of the face: the great collar of a sable coat protected the chin and caressed the cheek. Nevertheless, he responded to the summons.

You! he exclaimed.

Yes, Lasca replied. Jumpin. I'm chilled to the bone and I want to close the door.

He obeyed her. The chauffeur drove on.

What on earth are you doing in the Park at this hour in the morning? she demanded. Have you become a forester or a landscape gardener?

I must have been waiting for you! His spirits were rising. As he sank back into the grateful luxury of the soft cushions next to this lovely animal swathed in sables, she tucked the robe of leopardfur around his legs.

I've telephoned you several times, he announced.

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 I've been out of town, amusing myself until my apartment was ready. I can't stand too much of Sylvia; she gets on my nerves. Do you know her?

Not very well.

I'm about fed up with her. She whines. So I went to Atlantic City.

But your apartment?

Oh, that was all arranged while I was away. I merely told a decorator what I wanted, et voila! She made such a gesture with her hand as, on the stage, Jane Cowl would have made after such a phrase. He had seen the actress do this. With the grand manner in real life he was more unfamiliar.

Directly've done an errand, she went on, I'm going back there. Will you come with me?

Ask me!

Byron felt soothed, smoothed the right way, for the first time in weeks. Luxury, as a matter of fact always soothed him when he did not resent its implications. Somehow with Lasca he resented nothing. She was rich, amusing, soft to the touch, beautiful, sympathetic, fragrant with what he supposed to be the latest perfume from Paris.

When the motor stopped before a smart dressmaker's on Fifty-seventh Street, Lasca got out of the car and entered the shop. She returned in exactly ten minutes.

They've just received some new importations from Paris. I've found two gowns that will do.

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 But don't you have to try them on?

Oh, I'll do that at home. I can't be bothered taking my clothes off here. Nobody in that shop sufficiently interests me. Just a bunch of sissies!

You're wonderful! was all that it occurred to Byron to say.

She regarded him quizzically. Seems to me I've heard that before, somewhere, she remarked, and then, You're more cheerful now.

How did you know. . . ? he demanded in astonishment.

I ordered the car stopped a full thirty seconds before I called to you, and even so I had to call twice. You appeared to be extremely despondent, almost as if you had made up your mind to throw yourself into the lake.

I was despondent. I never thought of suicide before, but. ..

What's the trouble?

I've had a rotten deal all around. It's hell to be a Negro in this world.

She stared at him fixedly as if she were about to reply to this statement, but apparently she changed her mind. Presently she said, You dance well. I particularly remember your dancing.

So do you. I've thought of nothing else since. I've called you up. ..

So you told me. Let's dance together again. Ever go to the Winter Palace?

No. Can't afford it.

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 Never been to the Winter Palace! But, boy, you must come, you must come as my guest.

I'd love to.

Through her cloak, under the leopard-skin robe, he was conscious of her nearness. The physical vitality of the woman was electric.

What's become of that funny girl you were with the night I met you—Mary what's her name?

She's all right, I guess. I don't see her.

Snooty, little prig, I thought. Ugh! I detest the type. They've done nothing—always been protected and sheltered—and they're so damn superior.

This statement of the case exactly coincided with Byron's present opinion, but curiously he was annoyed to hear it from Lasca's lips.

She's all right, I guess. I don't see her, he repeated dully.

Let's forget about her, Lasca said, as she drew his hand into hers. She was staring squarely into his eyes and he observed, to his amazement, that her own lustrous eyes were wet with tears.

God, but you're wonderful! he cried, returning the pressure of her fingers.

She immediately withdrew her hand, at the same time shifting the position of her leg.

Atlantic City is lovely, she remarked in a cold, distant tone. I have so many friends there.

Do you like it as well as New York?

Oh, I don't care where I am, or, very often, with whom. I find what I want everywhere.

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 You're rich, Byron remarked, with a tinge of bitterness. It's easy for you.

I haven't always been rich, Byron, but I've always found what I wanted—even money.

You're luckier than most—than most Negroes anyway.

Negroes aren't any worse off than anybody else. They're better off, if anything. They have the same privileges that white women had before the bloody fools got the ballot. They're considered irresponsible like children and treated with a special fondness. Why, in Harlem one is allowed to do thousands of things that one would get arrested for downtown. Take the game of Numbers; everybody plays Numbers, and yet it is just a lottery and consequently against the law. . . . Of course, she continued, after a slight pause, I've never bothered very much about the fact that I'm coloured. It doesn't make any difference to me and I've never thought very much about it. I do just what I want to.

But how can you? What about discrimination? Segregation?

They just don't exist for me. I wouldn't tolerate such a thing. I live in New York exactly as I live in Paris. I do just what I want to and go where I please—to any theatre or hotel—and get what I'm after. You see, most Negroes are so touchy and nervous that they obey the unwritten im Crow laws—you must remember that any form

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 of discrimination is quite illegal in New York—to escape getting hurt. Nobody can hurt me, and so, of course, nothing unpleasant ever happens to me.

Don't you ever get bored?

Unmercifully. Sometimes, I think I'd like to die, I get so bored. It's so tiresome to be uniformly successful. I get so fed up with life that I could scream, but something—well, something always happens to bring me back, a new thrill, a new dress, a new dog—something. I've never been bored long and I never will be. . . . She tapped on wood with her gloved hand. . . . I won't permit myself to be bored, she announced, almost sternly. It's a weakness, my only one, she muttered under her breath.

You're a wonderful woman! Byron apparently could muster up no alternative approbatory phrase.

So you've said, and you're quite right. I don't know any other who is quite so wonderful. Fortunately, she continued, there are wonderful men too.

She gave vent to a hearty laugh. Her mirth proved infectious. Without much knowing why, without much caring why, Byron yielded to her mood. This time, it was he who sought her hand.

He had never before seen a chamber so magnificent as Lasca's drawing-room. The walls, tinted an apple-green, were bare of pictures, save the representation of a nude woman in a silver frame which

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 hung over the white marble fireplace. The French furniture was upholstered in rich brocades of lemon and old rose. Over the Steinway, a black Spanish shawl, embroidered in huge vermilion and orange flowers, was held in place by a rock-crystal lamp in the form of a Chinese goddess. Strewn on the tables, the desk, the mantelpiece, were more Chinese objects, birds, fish and animals, scent-bottles, carved out of ivory, jade, malachite, and moss-agate. On one of the tables stood a blue porcelain bowl filled with yellow roses, roses with so few petals that they resembled wild flowers. They had a strangely naïve air in this artificial environment. Transparent curtains of lemon yellow hung at the windows and sprawled on the jade-green carpet like the trains of ladies' dresses in 1896, and behind them, towards the light, depended further curtains of rose and deep-blue. Although the sun was shining brightly outside, only a soft light filtered through them into the room.

Byron completed his admiring appraisal by lifting the cover of a heavy, Russian cigarette box of silver, and extracting a cigarette. As he lighted a match, Lasca returned. The cigarette dropped from his nervous fingers. He stooped to recapture it.

That's right! Don't burn my carpet, she urged.

You're so beautiful!

She was wearing a dressing-gown of soft, filmy golden-brown chiffon, adorned with bands of ostrichfeather filaments which graduated in colour from a

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 pale yellow near her throat to a fiery orange about her ankles. Her golden-brown arms were bare; her feet were shod in golden mules.

She was followed almost immediately by the maid, bearing a tray containing glasses and a silver bucket of ice in which two bottles were chilling.

Bring the table over here, Lasca commanded, sinking back into a divan banked with lemon and rose cushions.

Sit down, she invited Byron as she lighted a cigarette.

He obeyed her while the maid, lifting one of the bottles, tenderly wrapped a napkin around its belly, and coaxed the cork out. It emerged with a lusty pop to strike the crystal chandelier, causing a great jangling among the pendents.

Brava, Marie! Lasca laughed.

When the maid had departed, Lasca proposed a toast: To crime and punishment!

Crime and punishment?

Yes. Our crime and the punishment of the innocent. They should always be punished. It's so easy not to do anything. But the guilty! . . . Her eyes sparkled. . . . I'm for them!

They drank the toast.

You haven't kissed me yet, she remarked in a perfectly casual tone.

It seemed to Byron that his blood would burst from his arteries. Clasping her in his arms, hold

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 ing her tightly pressed against his body, almost reclining now, he sought her lips.

After a little she pushed him gently away.

You kiss very well, she remarked.

Lasca! I adore you! I want you always!

I'm not going to leave you, she assured him, and now, for the first time he noted a strange, musical throbbing in her voice, and I'm not going to let you go. Didn't I tell you that I always get what I want.

But why do you want me? What can I give to you?

She poised his head between her palms and spoke in a voice raucous with passion: I want you to possess me, to own me. I want to be your slave, your Nigger, your own Nigger!

As Lasca drew her body a little apart from Byron, she inquired. Aren't you hungry?

I don't know. I'm much too happy to know. I love you!

He kissed her throat reverently; it was almost as if it were a ceremony.

So you'd better. You'll never find any one like me for love. I'll spoil all the others for you.

You have already. Oh, Lasca, I want you and nobody but you.

Well, you have me—now.

Promise me it will be for ever.

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 Yes, yes, of course it will, she replied impatiently, as she pressed the button on her bed-table. She did not shift her position when the maid entered. While she ordered lunch Byron's head lay cushioned on her shoulder.

They reclined under a spread of grey and silver and rose Spanish brocade, with a deep flounce of silver Spanish lace. The room itself was delicate and fragile, all silver and grey silk and crystal pendents, with here and there a note of rose. The heavy curtains were drawn. The chamber was lighted by side lamps softened by rose shades.

Where do you live? Lasca demanded unexpectedly.

He told her.

I'll send Harry for your clothes.

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A very black fellow, six feet tall, in a purple uniform ornamented with gold braid, guarded the door, but he bowed low as Lasca and Byron approached the entrance and waved them in. At the foot of the stairway, they were subjected to a second scrutiny through the bars of a window in the upper half of another door.

Mrs. Sartoris, come right in, the defender of the portal cried, and, as they accepted the invitation, he called out: Table for Mr. Gunnion!

A waiter took up the cry.

Come right this way, Mr. Gunnion, he urged, and led the pair to a table directly opposite the band.

Why Mr. Gunnion? Byron demanded of Lasca as they seated themselves.

She laughed and threw back her green velvet evening cloak embroidered in silver flowers.

That's part of the code here, she explained. If you're Mr. Gunnion it means that you're a good spender and a generally desirable customer, so you get the best available table. If you're Mr. Lomax, you're lucky if you even get in.

But they don't even know me! he protested.

You're with Mrs. Gunnion tonight.

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 Seated at tables around the three sides of the hall unoccupied by the band, were parties of white people, parties of coloured people, mixed parties, but the amber light which flooded the gold and black hall gave everybody present much the same complexion, save one brown girl who had put on too much powder and consequently looked dirty green.

In the centre of the dance floor, a sinewy, male dancer, hair sleek and oiled, was performing the Charleston.

Buddy, I'm with you! cried Lasca, a she stepped on to the floor.

The crowd applauded her appearance. Some one cried, Strut your stuff, Lasca!

Lasca tossed her heels back and danced with the utmost abandon.

Camel walk!

Pull 'em down!

Pick cherries!

She lifted her short skirt of champagne-coloured

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 crêpe high over her knees. A ruby set in platinum flashed its fire below her elbow. Her head was encased in a cloche of emerald-green.

As she returned to her table amidst a flurry of applause and laughter, the waiter bore in a bucket of ice from which a bottle-neck protruded. The manager of the Winter Palace, a dapper fellow, joined them.

Well, he exclaimed, I'm delighted. How's the little lady tonight?

How are you, Danny? She shook his hand. Sit down and meet Mr. Kasson.

My compliments. He lounged into the seat beside her. Delighted to see the little lady again. When you come in the lights are brighter and the band really works.

Behave, Danny. Say, has Sid been here? Her brow was clouded by a frown.

Not yet.

Don't let him in, see!

I get you.

Well, fill up! Lasca poured out the glasses. Then, raising her own, she proposed, Tea for three!

Byron emptied his glass at one swallow.

Got any happy dust, Danny? Lasca inquired.

Anything the little lady wants.

Send Myra to the lady's room.

Lasca preceded the vendor. Danny whistled until he attracted the attention of the cigarette-girl who nodded in reply to his signal.

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 First time here, Mr. Kasson?

Yes.

Well, you must come often.

Say, it's great. Is it always like this?

Wait awhile. You ain't seen nothing yet.

Byron looked around the room. He observed Piqua St. Paris and Arabia Scribner sitting with two men whom he did not recognize. Monte Esbon and a party occupied another table.

Presently Lasca returned.

Who's that punkin-seed sheik in the corner? she demanded.

Nothing for the little lady, Danny responded. He's queer.

Lasca grinned. Is Ran here yet? she asked.

No, Danny replied. He never gets here much before two.

I want to see him.

He'll want to see you.

Why, there's Monte! she cried, waving her hand.

Monte came over. Hello, Lasca! Hello, Byron! Some hoofer, Lasca! How you can shake your dogs!

Bottle it, Monte. How do you like my dress?

Nothing else but.

So's your old man.

Be your age! If you knew what I was thinkin' you'd lock me up.

Danny, having imbibed three-quarters of the contents of the bottle of champagne, begged to be

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 excused. I've got to look out for some of my other guests, he explained. I'll be back.

Danny's a wonder, Lasca commented. He runs from table to table lapping up the expensive drinks. The customers hardly get a look-in on their own liquor. Another quart of Lanson 1914, she commanded the waiter, and ask Toscanini to play my favourite tune.

As the waiter whispered in his ear, the pianist gave his men their cue and the band broke into, I like pie, I like cake.

It's a grand symphony! cried Lasca. Ta! Ta! Monte. Come back later.

She led Byron to the floor.

Black Bottom, she whispered.

I can't do it very well, he protested.

Try it, she adjured him.

Strangely enough, he found it perfectly simple to execute the intricate steps under the inspiring influence of her example. The floor was not crowded; only three or four couples were dancing. The music was soft and sensual; the band knew all the tricks of jazz, but it was a jazz made exquisite, refined. The saxophone cooed like a turtle dove, the drumbeat seemed to reverberate from a distance.

As Byron's lips brushed Lasca's cheek, an exotic fragrance assailed his nostrils, a fragrance with which he was becoming more and more familiar, a fragrance it would be impossible henceforth for him to forget.

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