pouring it mechanically out, recording time for leisurely gods. The world, he was thinking, is one little factory in an industrial cosmos; each man at his lathe, each turning out some part that will presumably be fitted into other parts, and the gods too contemptuous of our intelligence to show us the plan of the finished machine. That was their privilege, but it was caddish of them not to protect us against injury while we slaved for them.
An old man noticed that he needed sugar for his coffee, and pushed the bowl along the table. This attention brought Grover to earth. That old walrus, he reflected, is kinder than the gods in whose image he is made.
But perhaps the gods were kinder than one knew; the bitter things they put before one might be a sort of divine sugar for which one had to acquire a taste. This thought, and the narcotic coffee, and the metallic eyes of a young woman who was staring hopefully at him gave him courage to return to Cambridge.
On reaching his rooms he found under his door a note that had been delivered by messenger. "Dear Grover," he read, "it just struck me that often, when people are moody, it's bills and nothing else. I bet you have dozens of unsettleable ones this week. If you can't stall, let me be your banker. I'm flush at the moment. Also I really am sorry about the exam, for I know it means more than thumbscrews would make you admit. Love, Rhoda."
