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The hermit had begun to twist the lid off his can, but he hid it again under his sacking robe. He could see her great eyes shining sadly through the twilight; but he stood inflexible in the doorway of his shack and made no sign. Just as the moon rose on Thursday evening the hermit was seized by the world-madness.
In the third winter of a world-madness, with Europe guzzling blood and wild with the taste of it, America grew flatulent, stenching winds from the battle-field blowing her prosperity. Granaries filled to bursting tripled in value, and, in congested districts, men with lean faces rioted when bread advanced a cent a loaf.
And they expect a man with the world in his brain and the devil in his blood to live decently in this damnable city of fog and filth! And when the world-madness comes on him nobody knows anything about this particular form of mania the poor wretch must get into a stiff shirt or a strait waistcoat and converse sanely with that innocent woman, his wife.
You suffer nothing worse than a little idleness and a little poverty. They are nothing. Be content, then. Read the poets, improve a piece of land, play with the baby, learn golf. That's the happy and philosophic and fortunate life in these times of world-madness. As for the continent of Europe forget it. We have paid far too much attention to it. It has ceased to be worth it.
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