But Pearson is trying for the middle of
April. His flat is taken." Foster writhed in his chair.
"Why do they care for him?" he burst out. "He's nothing in himself. And he
cares nothing for them. And he cares nothing for you," Foster added boldly.
"All he has thought for is that fellow from up north."
"Don't ask me why they care," replied Randolph, with studied sobriety. "Why
does anybody care? And for what? For the thing that is just out of reach.
He's cool; he's selfish; he's indifferent. Yet, somehow, frost and fire
join end to end and make the circle complete." He fell into reflection.
"It's all like children straining upward for an icicle, and presently
slipping, with cracked pates, on the ice below."
"Well, _my_ pate isn't cracked."
"Unless it's the worst cracked of all."
Foster tore off his shade and threw it on the floor. "Mine?" he cried.
"Look to your own!"
"Joe!" said Randolph, rising. "That won't quite do!"
"Be a fool along with the others, if you will!" retorted Foster. "Oh!" he
went on, "Haven't I seen it all? Haven't I felt it all? You, Basil
Randolph, mind your own ways too!"
Randolph thought of words, but held his tongue.
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