"Look here," he said, turning
to the barber, "what is a man to do about women, about getting what he
wants from the women?"
The barber seemed to understand. "It has come to that then?" he asked
and looked quickly up. He lighted a pipe and sat looking at the
people. It was then he told McGregor of the wife and four children in
the Ohio town, describing the little brick house and the garden and
the coop for chickens at the back like one who lingers over a place
dear to his fancy. Something old and weary was in his voice as he
finished.
"It wasn't a matter for me to decide," he said. "I came away because I
couldn't do anything else. I'm not excusing myself, I'm just telling
you. There was something messy and disorderly about it all, about my
life with her and with them. I couldn't stand it. I felt myself being
submerged by something. I wanted to be orderly and to work, you see. I
couldn't let violin making alone. Lord, how I tried--tried bluffing
myself about it--calling it a fad."
The barber looked nervously at McGregor to reassure himself of his
interest. "I owned a shop on the main street of our town. Back of it
was a blacksmith shop. During the day I stood by the chair in my shop
talking to men being shaved about the love of women and a man's duty
to his family.
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