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He knew then what it was that he had perceived among the curtains of the room in Atlantic City.

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The Egotist Becomes a Personage

“A fathom deep in sleep I lie

With old desires, restrained before,

To clamor lifeward with a cry,

As dark flies out the greying door;

And so in quest of creeds to share

I seek assertive day again …

But old monotony is there:

Endless avenues of rain.

Oh, might I rise again! Might I

Throw off the heat of that old wine,

See the new morning mass the sky

With fairy towers, line on line;

Find each mirage in the high air

A symbol, not a dream again …

But old monotony is there:

Endless avenues of rain.”

Under the glass portcullis of a theatre Amory stood, watching the first great drops of rain splatter down and flatten to dark stains on the sidewalk. The air became gray and opalescent; a solitary light suddenly outlined a window over the way; then another light; then a hundred more danced and glimmered into vision. Under his feet a thick, iron-studded skylight turned yellow; in the street the lamps of the taxi-cabs sent out glistening sheens along the already black pavement. The unwelcome November rain had perversely stolen the day’s last hour and pawned it with that ancient fence, the night.