the far-away village whence Gritty, like himself, had fled. He would go back to Hale's Turning and pick up the threads left hanging there. The next movement in the unending symphony would be written over the first, but less naïve, more experienced, "like the same person thirteen years later."
Breaking the news to Pat was a painful ordeal. He could advance no reason but caprice for his impending desertion; for that matter caprice had prompted his acceptance of Pat's offer at the outset. And, although the Irishman could understand a sentimental desire to revisit one's native land, he could not understand Paul's readiness "to throw up a sure thing" on such frivolous grounds as mere "fed-upness." Pat began by arguing, and ended by preaching, his text being "Success, and what you must do to achieve it in this most practical of all possible worlds."
"We got a chance to make a wunnerful thing out o' this here concern," he concluded. "You've helped do the spade work, and if you don't stay to help reap the harvest, why, you're plumb crazy, son, that's all I got to say."
Paul laughed, but with a nice regard for the affection that underlay Pat's fulminations. "I told you in the beginning I was crazy," he reminded his friend. "The word I used was 'quixotic,' but it amounts to the same thing."
Pat groaned. "Well, for the love of Mike stop bein' it, while there's still time."
Paul grew suddenly grave. The words called up out of the past an echo of some admonition made by Dr. Wilcove to Aunt Verona. Something about shirking the issues of life, and about giving life a trial before it was too late. He let the comparison drop, and Pat went on preaching.
"Take a holiday if you like. Go home and see your folks, but come back and we'll run the joint together—
