At seventeen he had come to New York. There had followed hard struggles in
lean years, but his rugged health had buoyed him up. And there had been
genial friendships and dreams and explorations, a search for romance, the
strange glory of love, a few furtive ventures that left him dismayed. But
though love had seemed sordid at such times it had brought him crude
exultations. And if his existence had grown more obscure, it had been
somber only in patches, the main picture dazzling still. And still he had
been just making starts.
He had ventured into the business world, clerking now at this, now at that,
and always looking about him for some big opportunity. It had come and he
had seized it, despite the warnings of his friends. What a wild adventure
it had been a bureau of news clippings, a business new and unheard of but
he had been sure that here was growth, he had worked at it day and night,
and the business widening fast had revealed long ramifications which went
winding and stretching away into every phase of American life. And this
life was like a forest, boundless and impenetrable, up-springing,
intertwining. How much could _he_ ever know of it all?
Then had come his marriage. Judith's family had lived long in New York, but
some had died and others had scattered until only she was left. This house
had been hers, but she had been poor, so she had leased it to some friends.
It was through them he had met her here, and within a few weeks he had
fallen in love.
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