Vine himself
opened the door, and led her through the clerk's office into his own
small but luxurious apartment.
"You were just going out?" she asked.
"It is no matter," he answered. "I have at least half an hour that I can
spare."
He led her to his easy-chair, and seated himself in the chair before his
desk. The sunshine fell upon his thin, somewhat hard face, and she
looked at him thoughtfully.
"Are you getting older, Norris?" she asked, "or are things going the
wrong way with you just now?"
He raised his eyebrows.
"It is a very strenuous life this," he remarked. "One has to crush all
one's nervous instincts, and when one has succeeded in doing that, one
finds oneself a little aged."
She nodded.
"You look like that," she said. "You look as though a good many of the
fires had burned out, and left you--well, something of a machine. Is it
worth while?"
"I don't know," he answered listlessly.
"You ought to go to Europe more often," she said softly. "I do not
understand how men can make the slaves of themselves that you do here.
Don't you long sometimes to feel your feet off the treadmill?"
"Perhaps," he answered; "but the life here becomes like one of those
pernicious habits of cigarette smoking, or morphia taking.
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