his fists.  If life meant more to him, then it was for him to demand more from life, but he could not demand it from such companionship as this.  Those bold black eyes had nothing to offer.  He knew the thoughts behind them—­of ice-cream and of something else.  But those saint’s eyes alongside—­they offered all he knew and more than he could guess.  They offered books and painting, beauty and repose, and all the fine elegance of higher existence.  Behind those black eyes he knew every thought process.  It was like clockwork.  He could watch every wheel go around.  Their bid was low pleasure, narrow as the grave, that palled, and the grave was at the end of it.  But the bid of the saint’s eyes was mystery, and wonder unthinkable, and eternal life.  He had caught glimpses of the soul in them, and glimpses of his own soul, too.

“There’s only one thing wrong with the programme,” he said aloud.  “I’ve got a date already.”

The girl’s eyes blazed her disappointment.

“To sit up with a sick friend, I suppose?” she sneered.

“No, a real, honest date with—­” he faltered, “with a girl.”

“You’re not stringin’ me?” she asked earnestly.

He looked her in the eyes and answered:  “It’s straight, all right.  But why can’t we meet some other time?  You ain’t told me your name yet.  An’ where d’ye live?”

“Lizzie,” she replied, softening toward him, her hand pressing his arm, while her body leaned against his.  “Lizzie Connolly.  And I live at Fifth an’ Market.”

He talked on a few minutes before saying good night.  He did not go home immediately; and under the tree where he kept his vigils he looked up at a window and murmured:  “That date was with you, Ruth.  I kept it for you.”

CHAPTER VII

A week of heavy reading had passed since the evening he first met Ruth Morse, and still he dared not call.  Time and again he nerved himself up to call, but under the doubts that assailed him his determination died away.  He did not know the proper time to call, nor was there any one to tell him, and he was afraid of committing himself to an irretrievable blunder.  Having shaken himself free from his old companions and old ways of life, and having no new companions, nothing remained for him but to read, and the long hours he devoted to it would have ruined a dozen pairs of ordinary eyes.  But his eyes were strong, and they were backed by a body superbly strong.  Furthermore, his mind was fallow.  It had lain fallow all his life so far as the abstract thought of the books was concerned, and it was ripe for the sowing.  It had never been jaded by study, and it bit hold of the knowledge in the books with sharp teeth that would not let go.