Gerald noted the lady’s eyes brighten as she caught sight of him making his way through the throng towards her. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness. He saw that she was tense. For a time she brooded on the ideals and suggestions of the Socialists, on the vague intimations of an Endowment of Motherhood, of a complete relaxation of that intense individual dependence for women which is woven into the existing social order. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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