The modern man is satisfied with what is cheap and unlovely because he
expects to rise in the world. He has given his life to that dreary
dream and he is teaching his children to follow the same dream.
McGregor was touched by it. Being confused by the matter of sex he had
listened to the advice of the barber and meant to settle things in the
cheap way. One evening a month after the talk in the park he hurried
along Lake Street on the West Side with that end in view. It was near
eight o'clock and growing dark and McGregor should have been at the
night school. Instead he walked along the street looking at the ill-
kept frame houses. A fever burned in his blood. An impulse, for the
moment stronger than the impulse that kept him at work over books
night after night there in the big disorderly city and as yet stronger
than any new impulse toward a vigorous compelling march through life,
had hold of him. His eyes stared into the windows. He hurried along
filled with a lust that stultified his brain and will. A woman sitting
at the window of a little frame house smiled and beckoned to him.
McGregor walked along the path leading to the little frame house. The
path ran through a squalid yard. It was a foul place like the court
under his window behind the house in Wycliff Place.
Pages:
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93
94
95
96
97
98
99
100
101