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I?”
     
    He ran to the curtain and pushed the button savagely. The curtains rolled apart swiftly, and the inner light rushed out upon him. He looked, and stood in utter silence. Then his eyes filled, and the tears ran down his full cheeks as if he were a child again.
     
    “Yeh,” he whispered. “I guess you do know about women, about Mom and Fran and Molly. Yeh, I guess you do. Say, do you think there’s a chance for me? I mean, a real chance for jerks like me? I sort of forgot about Mom. But you didn’t, did you?”
     
    His hand stretched forward, and the sullen and hostile face softened. “I guess I’d better be goin’,” he said. “It’s too late for Mom now, but Fran’s waitin’. You won’t forget me, will you? You won’t forget? I’m goin’ to that automation school tomorrow. I’m sorry I said you don’t know nothin’ about work. You sure worked hard, didn’t you? All your life. For jerks like me.”
     

SOUL THREE
     

The Despised and Rejected
     
“. . . despised and rejected from among men.”
     
    It was an extremely hot day, but the air was pure and fresh and cool in the sitting room. The young man entering was dressed in black. He paused on the threshold as the bronze door began to close on his heels. He glanced about at the waiting men and women and waited, himself, for the inevitable stare of repudiation or disgust. But the others appeared not to notice him. They were sunk in engrossing thoughts of their own. He hated himself for apologetically tiptoeing to the slit in the wall, where he dropped a sealed note. Then he threw back his shoulders, carefully chose a chair far from the others, and sat down and waited. The others did not look at him. He picked a magazine from a table and rifled through the pages. He could not concentrate. He lifted his head, and though he coolly scrutinized the waiting room his eyes were timid. He wondered what the man behind that door would think of his note. He smiled disdainfully. What did it matter what anyone thought now? Why had he come here? A chance word, a half-remembered line in the newspaper? This was no place for him.
     
    If only there were some pictures on the stark white walls! But no. A man, apparently, was to be left solely with his thoughts. Now, that was very pleasant! His thoughts. They stared back at him from the shining surfaces like questions. He tried to answer them angrily; they remained. He tried to keep his anger, but it became a question too. He studied his companions furtively. Why were they here? What troubles did that rosy fat man in the fine summer silk suit have, or that young woman with her pretty white face and light hair? Or that young man with the briefcase at his knee? Or that comfortable matron who was knitting? What agony could they have, compared with his?
     
    The chime sounded, and one by one they rose and went into the mysterious room behind the oaken door. The young man strained to hear voices, one complaining, the other complacently soothing. There were no voices. Was it a chapel in there? If so, he would stalk out. There was no place in a chapel for him, or in hypocrisy, or breezy common sense. He himself was a curse. He hated himself and hated those who hated him.
     
    Then the chime sounded for him, and he started, looked about the empty room, and rose. He began to tiptoe, then put his feet down solidly and wished the carpet could register his step. He held his good hat in his hand. He stalked to the oaken door and pushed it open and saw only gentle light and the marble chair with its velvet cushions, and the curtained alcove. Seeing the latter, he smiled grimly. A psychiatrist, as he suspected, or one of those busy social workers, or a clergyman. He sat down.
     
    “Good afternoon,” he said in a beautiful voice. There was no answer, but all at once he felt that his greeting had been returned. Never mind! He was tired of their politeness, their vigorous pretending that he was not what he was.
     
    “I am a