McClintock watched her interestedly until her golden head vanished below; then, with tolerant pity, he looked down at Spurlock, who had closed his eyes. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. But to-day he did not get beyond half a dozen desultory start-offs. People were not slaves to their gods as they are now, oppressed and unhappy, chained to their mortality and suffering so that they may one day enter an imaginary Heaven. Larry kept digging heartily into his spaghetti, not intrigued in the slightest. "Thank you," she said, and left the office.
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