"We are the leaven in the lump." He was not quite certain what he meant by that; he only knew that the lump was concerned vaguely with that mass of materialism and religion which made the character of the Town . . . a religion tamed and shopworn and subdued to commercial needs, a faith worn down to the level of convenience. Groping, it seemed to him that he was beginning to emerge at last, to be born as a soul, an individual.
"I mean to paint," he said suddenly.
"That won't feed you . . . and your children."
"No . . . I'll manage somehow." Nothing seemed impossible . . . nothing in the world . . . if he could only shake himself free. He thought, without any reason, "Krylenko is no more one of the mill workers than I am. If he were really one of them, he would be drunk now in Hennessey's place. There is something which sets him apart. . . . He isn't one of them either. He's as unhappy as I am."
Looking up, he asked suddenly, "And what about Giulia? Are you going to marry her?"
Without raising his hand, Krylenko answered, "No that's finished now. If we'd won, it would have been all right. But now . . . it's no good . . . I'll be nothing but a tramp and bum."
He spoke in a strange, dead voice, as if he were saying, "It's a snowy night," as if something had died in him.
"No . . ." he repeated. "That's all finished. But you . . . you've got everything before you . . . and that girl . . . Mrs. Conyngham. . . ." He looked up suddenly, "She has faith in you . . . that's something." He looked at the great, nickeled watch he
