" "You'll do a national service, then," said Hogarth. He was a civil servant of some standing, and after a previous conversation upon aesthetics of a sententious, nebulous, and sympathetic character, he had sent her a small volume, which he described as the fruits of his leisure and which was as a matter of fact rather carefully finished verse. It was something that would create a mutual claim, a relationship. For all the enervating heat, he applied himself vigorously to his tasks. He was aware of trying to scream because he was paralyzed and his legs would not move. The tree-lined streets were silent except for the sporadic revving of glass packs down Church Avenue. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son.
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