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Starting Out with Java - From Control Structures through Objects

Answers to Review Questions

Chapter 2

Multiple Choice and True/False

1. c
2. b
3. a
4. b and c
5. a, c, and d
6. a
7. c
8. b
9. a
10. d
11. b
12. a
13. a
14. c
15. a
16. True
17. True
18. False
19. True
20. False
21. False

Predict the Output

Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e 2

1. 0
100
2. 8
2
3. I am the incrediblecomputing
machine
and I will
amaze
you.
4. Be careful
This might/n be a trick question.
5. 23
1

Find the Error

• The comment symbols in the first line are reversed. They should be /* and */.
• The word class is missing in the second line. It should read public class
MyProgram.
• The main header should not be terminated with a semicolon.
• The fifth line should have a left brace, not a right brace.
• The first four lines inside the main method are missing their semicolons.
• The comment in the first line inside the main method should begin with forward
slashes (//), not backward slashes.
• The last line inside the main method, a call to println, uses a string literal, but
the literal is enclosed in single quotes. It should be enclosed in double quotes, like
this: "The value of c is".
• The last line inside the main method passes C to println, but it should pass c
(lowercase).
• The class is missing its closing brace.

Algorithm Workbench
1. double temp, weight, age;
2. int months = 2, days, years = 3;
3.
a) b = a + 2;
b) a = b * 4;
c) b = a / 3.14;
d) a = b – 8;
e) c = 'K';
f) c = 66;
4.
a) 12
b) 4
c) 4
Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e 3

d) 6
e) 1
5.
a) 3.287E6
b) -9.7865E12
c) 7.65491E-3
6.
System.out.print("Hearing in the distance\n\n\n");
System.out.print("Two mandolins like creatures in the\n\n\n");
System.out.print("dark\n\n\n");
System.out.print("Creating the agony of ecstasy.\n\n\n");
System.out.println(" - George Barker");
7. 10 20 1
8. 12
9. a
10. HAVE A GREAT DAY!
Have a great day!
11.
int speed, time, distance;
speed = 20;
time = 10;
distanct = speed * time;
System.out.println(distance);
12.
double force, area, pressure;
force = 172.5;
area = 27.5;
pressure = area / force;
System.out.println(pressure);

13.
double income;
// Create a Scanner object for keyboard input.
Scanner keyboard = new Scanner(System.in);
// Ask the user to enter his or her desired income
System.out.print("Enter your desired annual income: ");
income = keyboard.nextDouble();
14.
String str;
double income;
str = JOptionPane.showInputDialog("Enter your desired " +
"annual income.");
income = Double.parseDouble(str);

15. total = (float)number;

Short Answer
1. Multi-line style
2. Single line style
Gaddis: Starting Out with Java: From Control Structures through Objects, 5/e 4

3. A self-documenting program is written in such a way that you get an

understanding of what the program is doing just by reading its code.
4. Java is a case sensitive language, which means that it regards uppercase letters as
being entirely different characters than their lowercase counterparts. This is
important to know because some words in a Java program must be entirely in
lowercase.
5. The print and println methods are members of the out object. The out
object is a member of the System class. The System class is part of the Java
API.
6. A variable declaration tells the compiler the variable’s name and the type of data
it will hold.
7. You should always choose names for your variables that give an indication of
what they are used for. The rather nondescript name, x, gives no clue as to what
the variable’s purpose is.
8. It is important to select a data type that is appropriate for the type of data that your
program will work with. Among the things to consider are the largest and smallest
possible values that might be stored in the variable, and whether the values will be
whole numbers or fractional numbers.
9. In both cases you are storing a value in a variable. An assignment statement can
appear anywhere in a program. An initialization, however, is part of a variable
declaration.
10. Comments that start with // are single-line style comments. Everything
appearing after the // characters, to the end of the line, is considered a comment.
Comments that start with /* are multi-line style comments. Everything between
these characters and the next set of */ characters is considered a comment. The
comment can span multiple lines.
11. Programming style refers the way a programmer uses spaces, indentations, blank
lines, and punctuation characters to visually arrange a program’s source code. An
inconsistent programming style can create confusion for a person reading the
code.
12. One reason is that the name PI is more meaningful to a human reader than the
number 3.14. Another reason is that any time the value that the constant
represents needs to be changed, we merely have to change the constant's
initialization value. We do not have to search through the program for each
statement that uses the value.
13. javadoc SalesAverage.java
14. The result will be an int.
Random documents with unrelated
content Scribd suggests to you:
 Indeed, the old man, if he was a little lax later on in wiring all the
developments in the case—because he didn't want to frighten the young man
into throwing up his investigation in the very middle of it—was more
valuably helpful in another way.

When the fever reached its crisis he got a great specialist out of bed for a
three o'clock in the morning consultation over the little stenographer, and
charged his costly loss of sleep to the company instead of to Mason Stevens,
Mr. Silverman cordially approving.

They said afterwards that Georgia could not have taken another small
step toward death, without dying. She flickered and guttered like a lamp
whose oil has been used up. For a few moments it seemed that her light had
been put out altogether, but there must have been a tiny spark hidden
somewhere in the charred wick, for the doctors brought her back by artificial
stimulation, and you can not stimulate the dead.

If specialists and private rooms and nurses give sick people more chance
of getting well, then Stevens and the old man and Mr. Silverman saved
Georgia by their care of her, for she could not have had less chance to live
and lived.

XVIII
THE PRIEST

The crisis of the fever came upon Georgia so suddenly that she had
lapsed into semi-consciousness before the arrival of Father Hervey. She was
able, in making her confession to him, barely to gasp out a few broken
sentences of contrition.

He anointed with holy oil her eyes, ears, nostrils, lips, hands and feet,
absolving her in the name of the Trinity from those sins which she truly
repented.
 When at last she came out of the shadow, her mother believed that it was
the priest even more than the doctors who had saved her, for it is taught that
the reception of Extreme Unction may restore health to the body when the
same is beneficial to the soul.

A few days later the priest came again to see her and was amazed at the
rapidity of her convalescence.

"You're out of the woods this time, Georgia," he said, "sure enough. But I
can tell you you had us frightened." He spoke with just the barest shade of a
tip of a brogue, too slight to indicate in print.

His coat was shiny, his trousers slightly frayed at the bottom, and his
shoes had been several times half-soled. A parish priest, throughout his life
he had kept to the vow of personal poverty as faithfully as a Jesuit.

He stayed for half an hour and made himself charming. He asked the
nurse not to leave the room, saying that he needed an audience. He had some
new stories, he said, and he wanted to test them, which he couldn't do on
Georgia alone, she was so solemn. Besides, she was almost sure to hash
them up in repeating them, and he had a reputation to preserve. There was a
shepherd in County Clare whose wife was from County Mayo, with the head
of the color of a fox, inside and out. And so forth.

First the women smiled with him, then laughed, then roared. His touch
was sure, his shading delicate, his technique perfected. He had them and he
held them. It was excellent medicine for the sick he gave them.

Then he told them a little parish gossip of wedding banns he thought he

would shortly be requested to publish. His eyes twinkled at Georgia's
astonished "You don't say—well, what she sees in him——" And he finished
his pleasant visit with a couple of little anecdotes, each with a moral subtly
introduced; simple tales of heroism and self-sacrifice that had lately come
under his notice.

When he arose to go Georgia and the nurse bent their heads. He offered a
short little prayer, gave them his blessing and departed.
 He had not said a word in a serious way to Georgia of her affairs. But she
knew that he was merely postponing.

Before his decisive interview with her he prayed earnestly for strength;
for strength rather than guidance, for he felt no shade of doubt that the path
which he would urge her to take was the right one. The Church had pointed
it out long ago, and that settled it. He never questioned the wisdom or the
inspiration of the great policies of the Church. He was none of your
modernists, questioners and babblers; he was a veteran soldier, a fighting
private in the army which will make no peace but a victor's.

"Georgia," he began, "do you feel strong enough for a serious talk? For if
you don't I will come later."

She was sitting up in bed. Her skin had the translucent pallor of one
whose life has hung in the balance. Her hair, braided and coiled about her
head, had lost its peculiar gloss and become dry and brittle.

"Yes, Father; I am strong enough. As well have it over with now as any
time."

There was more of defiance in her words than in her heart, for she could
not help being a little afraid of this gentle, gray old man with the Roman
collar. Since her childhood he had stood in her mind for strange power and
mystery. Even in her most rebellious days before her sickness she had not
been willing to confront him. She had evaded him, run away from him. Now
she could not run away.

"I have seen Jim since I was here last," said he, "and——"

"Father, I know what you're going to say—and a reconciliation is

impossible.

"You know that he has stopped drinking?"

"Yes, I heard so."

"It is true. He looks fine, fine. Brown and strong."

 "I didn't think he ever could do it," said she, shaking her head. "He is
fighting a battle he has lost so often."

"There is none who could help him so much in his struggle as you."

"Oh, there," she answered quickly and bitterly, "I think you are mistaken.
He has paid very little attention to me or my wishes for four or five years
past."

"Then," said the priest, "he has learned his lesson, for now he depends on
you more than on any other person."

She did not answer, but closed her eyes and clenched her fists as tightly
as she could, summoning her will to resist. But she realized that her will, like
her body, was not in health. The sick bed is the priest's harvest time.

"My child," he said gently, "there is a human soul struggling for its
salvation. Will you help or hinder it?"

"I do not think that is quite a fair way to put it."

"Not fair? With all my soul I believe it to be true. And, remember, in

helping him to his salvation you are bringing your own nearer."

"But must we consider everything, everything from the standpoint of

salvation? Of course, I want to go to Heaven when I die, but I want to be as
happy as I can here on earth, too. And that's impossible if I live with Jim."

"If you had a child," he asked patiently, as if going clear back to the
beginning again with a pupil that could not learn easily, "and he said to you,
'Mother, I don't want to go to school, for it makes me unhappy and I want to
be as happy as I can,' would you let him have his way?" He paused, but she
did not answer, so he went on to make his point clearer. "Of course you
wouldn't if you loved your child. You would make him undergo discipline
and accept instruction, if you wanted him to be a fine, strong, brave man.
Our life on earth is but our school days—our preparation for the greater life
to come. And we are not always allowed to seek immediate happiness any
more than little children are."
 She felt that she was being overcome in argument by the priest, as
everyone must be who accepts his fundamental premise, namely, that he is
more intimately acquainted with the secrets of life and death than laymen
are.

But far below the reach of argument and theological dialectics, which are
surface things, from the deep springs of her life the increasing warning
flowed up to her consciousness that it was the abomination of a slave to
embrace where she did not love.

"Father," she said, not trying to argue any longer, but just to make him
see, "Oh, don't you understand? Man and wife are so close together—like
that." She placed her two palms together before her in the attitude of prayer.

He raised his hand solemnly, to pronounce that phrase which perhaps

more than any other has influenced human destinies, "And they shall be two
in one flesh."

"But to live so close with a man you don't love or care for, oh, that is vile,
utterly, utterly vile."

He could not entirely sympathize with the intensity of her point of view.
If one's earthly love did not turn out as well as the dreams of it, in that it
merely resembled other phases of mortal existence, to be submitted to. He
knew many married couples that fell out at times, but if they tried to make
the best of things as they were, on the whole they got along pretty well. He
was inclined to deprecate the modern tendency to invest with too much
dignity the varying shades of erotic emotion. It was one of the things which
led to divorce—this beatification of earthly, fleshly love.

Had not the highest and holiest lives been led in the entire absence of it,
by its ruthless extirpation? Not merely saints, martyrs and great popes, but
ordinary priests like himself, ordinary nuns like the hospital sisters, had
yielded up that side of life freely and been the better for it, more single-
minded in the service of the Lord.

He did not believe that a woman who had met with disappointment in this
regard should make of it such a monument of woe. Let her contemplate her
position with a little more courage and resignation; let her not exaggerate the
importance of her own personal feelings; let her yield up her pride and
stubbornness and essay to do her duty in that relationship which she had
chosen for herself, with the sanction of the Church.

Father Hervey had sat in a confessional box for nearly fifty years. He
knew a very great deal about marriage from without. He had seen its glories
and its shames reflected in the hearts of thousands. But he never felt its
meanings in his own heart, at first hand.

Perhaps if its priesthood were not celibate, the Roman Church would not
so unyieldingly insist upon the indissolubility of marriage. But if its
priesthood were not celibate, the Roman Church would almost surely lose
much of its grip upon the imagination. The mind of the average laymen,
Catholic or not, cannot but be powerfully moved by the spectacle of a body
of educated men, leaders in their communities, voluntarily renouncing the
most appealing of human relationships for the sake of a supernatural ideal.

It is because the average man does not and cannot live without women
which causes him to regard a priest with a species of awe. Reason as you
will about it, justify the married clergy with the words of St. Paul and God's
promptings within us, the fact remains that the Roman priest alone does
what we can't do, lives as we couldn't live; he alone demonstrates that he is
of somewhat different clay; he alone mystifies us; and mystery is the essence
of sacerdotalism and authority.

"Georgia," resumed Father Hervey, "if all your pretty dreams have not
come true, remember they never do in this life. You must learn to
compromise."

"I will compromise, Father—that I will do, but I won't surrender utterly."
She drew herself straighter up in bed, leaning forward without the prop of
the pillow. Her excitement seemed to invigorate her. "There is another man
——"

"Another man?" he asked sternly.

 "Yes, but I will give him up. I love him, but I will give him up. On the
other side, I will never take Jim back. That is my compromise."

"Is that not something like saying you would not commit murder, but
would compromise on stealing?"

"Father, that is the best I can do."

"If he continued in his former evil ways," and there was an unusual tone
of pleading rather than command in Father Hervey's voice, "I would not urge
you to return to him. It is recognized that there are cases where living apart
is advisable. But here is poor Jim, doing his best and needing every helping
hand, and you won't extend yours. It is not fair, Georgia, and it is not kind—
to him or to yourself."

"I can't go back to him, Father. It is impossible. I hate him when I think of
it. I can't live with him again. It is inconceivable. It is a horror to imagine."
She averted her head and put her hands before her as if pushing away the
image of her husband.

"In the top drawer of the bureau," she said, "you will find some letters—
one for every day I have been here. They are from the other man. You may
take them if you wish—and I will give you my promise to receive no more
from him."

The priest felt as if he were touching unclean things when he took up

Stevens' letters. There were more than twenty of them, and most of them
were very thick.

"You have read them all?" he asked.

"Yes."

Father Hervey wrapped and tied the letters in a newspaper and rang for an
attendant.

"Kindly put this package in the furnace," he directed, "just as it is,

without undoing it."
 "You have wandered far," he said quietly, then took up his soft black hat
and departed without prayer or blessing.

She sank back among her pillows, exhausted from the conflict. She had
won, she told herself, she had won, but it was without joy.

She had definitely given up Mason, as she knew she must from the
beginning of her sickness, from the day that she entered the hospital. Perhaps
that had been part of the price of her getting well.

But she had also stuck to her purpose about Jim. She had refused to
violate her natural feelings to the extent of entering into life's deepest
intimacies with the one person in all the world whom she most disliked. She
had put her will against the priest, the holy man, and she had not given in.
She knew that not many women could have done that so openly and so
successfully.

He had left her without prayer or blessing. She was not at peace with the
Church which meant—her eyes fell upon the sacred picture on the wall
opposite—which meant that she was not at peace with The Man whose
mournful sufferings and woe had been for her.

Fear slowly came over her.

XIX
SACRED HEART

The picture which she saw on the wall opposite, across the foot of the
bed, was of the Sacred Heart of Jesus.

It was the thing which she had seen oftenest and looked at longest since
she had been in the hospital. It hung directly before her eyes as she lay in
bed with her head on the pillow. She saw it first on waking and last before
sleeping. Sometimes when she awoke suddenly in the middle of the night
she could feel the picture still there, watching her in the darkness with
mournful eyes.

When first she looked at it she realized how crude it was in execution. Its
colors were glaring. The Man wore a shining white cloak which he drew
back to show underneath a blue garment. On this, placed apparently on the
outside of it, was a Sacred Heart of red, girt in thorns. Holy flames
proceeded from it, and there was a nimbus of encircling light.

She saw that it would have been better if the Sacred Heart had seemed to
glow through His garment, instead of being obviously superposed upon it;
that softer blue and grayer white and less scarlet red would have been truer
tones for a religious picture. She took not a little pride in her critical
perceptiveness.

But as she lay watching the picture day after day, she appreciated the
superficiality of her first judgment of it. She had been looking at colored
inks and the marks made by copper plates, not at a symbol of eternity.

Does one estimate a put-by baby's slipper, or a lock of someone's hair, or

a wedding ring by its intrinsic worth? If the west side print shop which made
the picture before her had failed, it could have done nothing else with that
subject to portray. All attempts to represent Christ must fail. Rafael had
failed. Everyone would fail.

Even the Church had failed. There had been bad popes, had there not?
But the Church had tried to represent Him. The Church had come nearer to
doing so than any other enginery or person. The saintliest persons had
belonged to her and died for her and in her.

One Church, she knew, He had founded, and left behind Him. One and
but one. "Thou art Peter and on this rock I will build my church." It was
unequivocal. Christ did not say "churches," He said "church." There was but
one which He had built.

And she had defied it; she had hardened her heart against it; she had sent
away its appointed minister in order to exalt herself.
 Her eyes were drawn again to the Sacred Heart, bound in the thorns
which she and hers had placed there. So it had been, so it would be. Christ
was crucified again each day, in the hearts of the people whom He loved.
Had she not herself also given Him vinegar upon a sponge?

She felt the tears trickling down her cheeks as she thought of her own
supreme selfishness, and she looked through blurred eyes at the
representation of the most supremely unselfish face that mankind has been
able to conceive.

Then suddenly divine forgiveness seemed to descend upon her and level
the bounds and limits of her ego; the barriers of her nature gave way and she
found herself at one with all creation; she, and humanity, and nature, and
God were together. Her soul seemed to quicken itself within her and
ineffable light shone about her.

She fell on her knees at her bedside, her adoring eyes upon the pictured
countenance of her Savior. Over and over again she repeated that wonderful
word learned at the convent, which expresses all prayer in itself. "Peccavi,"
she prayed, "peccavi, peccavi."

It seemed to her at last, when she arose from her knees that she had
washed all her sins away with the passion of her contrition; that she had been
born again in the spirit and become pure. In her ecstasy she thought that the
face of her dear Lord regarded her now less mournfully, and that there was
joy in His smile where there had been only sorrow.

She knew for the first time in her self-willed life the peace unspeakable of
entire self-surrender. Her tears continued, but they were tears of joy, and she
sobbed as sometimes prisoners sob when pardoned unexpectedly. The
miracle of deliverance rolled over her soul like a flood, washing away the
barriers of self-control.

During her weeks in the hospital she had lived in an atmosphere of

perfect faith, as intense and vital, almost, as that of the middle ages. Those
who had carried and comforted her through her sickness, nurses and gentle
nuns, could not doubt that Christ had died to save them and to save her.
 She was environed with Catholicism. Sometimes she could see through
her partly opened door a black-coated priest passing in the hall to shrive a
dying sinner. The chimes and chants from the chapel came faintly to her ears
with benediction. The picture of the Sacred Heart hung before her eyes in
unceasing reminder of the whole marvelous fabric of the Church.

Because of her lowered vitality and her days of idleness in bed, her
receptivity to exterior impressions was greatly increased. The steady stream
of suggestions of her ancient religion which had flowed in upon her welled
higher and higher in her subconsciousness until they crossed the line of
consciousness and took sudden and complete possession of her mind.

XX

SURRENDER
The next morning Georgia sent for Jim.

Before he came she wrote to Stevens:

Dear Mason—I am going to take my husband back. I have

been here now for nearly a month, and I have had plenty of
time to think things over, you may be sure. What I am going
to do is best for both of us—for all three of us. There is no
doubt of that in my mind. I know it.

Please don't answer or try to see me. That would simply

make things harder for us, but not change my plans.

It is my religion that has done it, Mason. Do you remember

that I once told you, when it came to the big things I didn't
believe I would dare disobey? I was right in this respect that
I can't bring myself to disobey, but it is not so much from fear
 as I thought it would be. It is a sense of "ought." That is the
only way I can put it. I have a feeling, tremendously strong,
but hard to define in words, that I ought not, that I must not
go on with what we planned.

This feeling is stronger than I am, Mason. That is all I can

say about it.

So good-bye. May God bless you and make you prosperous

and happy in this life and the next one. This is my prayer, my
dear.

Georgia.

The nurse took the letter to the mail box in the office and when she
returned, looked at her patient curiously, saying, "Your husband is waiting
downstairs to see you."

"Do you mind asking him to come up, nurse?"

Jim, who had now been in the city for a month, had lost some of his
open-air tan and regained a portion of his banished poundage, but still he
looked far better than Georgia had seen him for years. He made a favorable
impression upon her from the instant he crossed the threshold. He was the
Jim of the earlier rather than of the later years of their married life. His
aspect seemed to confirm the truth of the revelation which she had received
concerning him.

"How do you do," she asked formally.

"Very well, thank you," he replied. "How do you do?"

"Much better—won't you be seated?"

Jim, first carefully placing his brown derby hat under the chair, sat where
the priest had been the day before.
 She felt a certain numbness of emotion as she looked at him, but none of
that loathing and disgust without which, as she had come to believe, he
could not be in her presence. Doubtless, she reflected, she had exaggerated
her dislike for Jim, to justify herself for Stevens.

"Georgia," said Jim slowly, "I didn't act right before. I know it and I'm
sorry and ashamed. It was drink that put the devil in me, same as it will for
any man that goes against it hard enough........ Some people can drink in
moderation—it doesn't seem to hurt them. But I can't. When I got started I
tried to drink up all the whiskey in North Clark Street. Well, it can't be done.
I'm onto that now. No more moderate drinking for me. From now on I'm
going to chop it out altogether."

He paused for a word of encouragement, but she remained silent. A little

nodule of memory, which had been lying dormant in her brain, awoke at his
words, "from now on I'm going to chop it out altogether." How many times
she had heard him say that before—and every time he had thumped his right
fist into his left palm, just as he was doing now.

"All I ask from you is another chance," he continued. "You know about
the prodigal son. That's me. I've come back repentant. I know I've brought
you misery in my time—and plenty of it. So if you stick on your rights and
never forgive me, you don't have to. What do you say, Georgia?"

Again he paused, but she did not speak, sitting with her head bent,
picking with her fingers at the coverlet.

"It wasn't me that did you the harm," he pleaded, "it was the whiskey in
me, and if I keep away from that why the rest of me isn't so bad. You used to
think that yourself once, Georgia."

She waited for him to continue, fearing what he would say next, and he
said it. "But if you're through with me, I guess the only friend I've got left
after all is whiskey. He put me to the bad all right, but he won't go back on
me now I'm there. Whatever else you can say about him, he's faithful. He's
always got a smile for you when you're blue, and he'll stick to you clear
through to the finish."
 Yes, that was Jim of old, word for word and motive for motive, who
thought the proper remedy for disappointment was drunkenness.

"Oh, Jim," she cried, "why did you say that?"

He misunderstood her completely. He felt that he was making a most

effective threat. "I said it because it's true," he answered roughly, "that's why.
You've showed me where I stand—you've given me my answer just as loud
as if you'd been shouting it. Good-bye. Likely I'll be laying up in a barrel
house on the river front pretty soon, and pretty soon after that they'll be
taking me out to Dunning and planting me in the ground with just a little
stick and a number on it, or else—" a catch came into his voice as the
pathetic picture swam vividly before his eyes, for like most drunkards he
possessed something of the artistic temperament, "or else maybe they'll cut
me up to show the young internes and the trained nurses which side the
heart's on."

Yes, he was doing the baby act again, making excuses and threatening
suicide. He might have deceived Al and Father Hervey for a month or more
with his "reform," but he couldn't deceive her for ten consecutive minutes.
She had seen into the core of his nature, that it was weak and unstable as
ever. Sooner or later he would relapse. What had been would be again.

He arose as if to leave, then hesitated to give her one last chance to relent.

"S'long," he said, slowly opening the door.

"You can come home, Jim—if you want."

"If I want!" He went to her quickly and took her in his arms and pressed
his lips to her cold ones until she shuddered in his embrace.

When at last he left her she looked to the picture of the Sacred Heart as if
for approval, and whispered, "Not my will, but Thine, be done."
 XXI
WORSHIP

A few days later Georgia was discharged from the hospital with the
warning that she was convalescent, but not cured. She might by indiscretion
in the ensuing weeks make herself a semi-invalid for the rest of her life; she
might even bring about an acute relapse, in which case she would be likely
to die.

She telephoned the old man that she was ready to report the following
Monday, but he ordered her to stay away for at least another week, saying
that her place was absolutely safe and her salary running on. She thanked
him so earnestly for his kindness that he was minded to break into her secret,
congratulate her on her engagement, tell her it was Stevens who had been
kind and generous, but according to his promise he refrained. He supposed
she would quickly discover the facts after their marriage anyway.

Jim was rodman with the surveying department of an important landscape

gardening firm. Sometimes his employment kept him out in the country for
two or three days at a time, but he turned in ten or twelve dollars every
Saturday night and the family was more comfortable than it had ever been.

Georgia had in fairness to acknowledge that Jim had shown unexpectedly

decent feeling. During her fortnight of convalescence he had assumed no
right of proprietorship, made no demands. He slept on a lounge in the front
room and never went to her room without first knocking. She wished that
things might go on so indefinitely, but she knew that it was now a question
of days, perhaps of hours, before she must reassume all the obligations of
wifehood. She was getting well so rapidly and so evidently that soon she
would have no excuse for not meeting them.

She was grateful to Jim for his courtesy; and they spoke to each other
more kindly than ever before. They had ceased to act upon the theory that it
did not much matter what one said to the other since the other had to stand it
anyway. She had already taken over a year out of their lives together to show
that she did not have to stand it.
 Their example was not without its influence upon the other members of
the family, Al and Mrs. Talbot, and there was far less wrangling and friction
in the household.

Not without hesitating dread Georgia brought herself to the grilled shutter
of Father Hervey's Gothic confessional box. She had been derelict in this as
in other obligations; except for her brief and half delirious words of general
contrition in the hospital, it was her first confession for three years.

Sinking to her knees she whispered, "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned."

She began the prayer of the penitent. "I confess to Almighty God, to
blessed Mary, ever Virgin, to blessed Michael, the archangel, to blessed John
the Baptist, to the holy apostles Peter and Paul, and to all the saints, that I
have sinned exceedingly in thought, word and deed, through my fault,
through my fault, through my most grievous fault."

As she told her secret sins and pettiness to the priest, it seemed that the
poison of them was being drained from her memory where they had become
encysted. Her heart was cleaned and purified and lightened by the process of
the confessional.

It is indeed doubtful whether any other ecclesiastical instrument since the

world began has lifted so much sorrow from mankind.

Georgia's conspicuous and mortal sins were two—Doubt and her

continued entertainment of that feeling for Mason Stevens which, since it
was unlawful, the Church denominated Lust.

Doubt had followed naturally on absorption in worldly affairs, dangerous

associations and reading, and neglect of her obligations to the Church.
Especially reprehensible had been her frequent attendance at the Sunday
Evening Ethical Club, where the very air was impregnated with dilute
agnosticism.

In future she must be more careful in her choice of reading. Materialism

and atheism were skillfully concealed in many a so-called sociological
treatise. Not that sociology lacked certain elements of truth, but the danger
for untrained minds lay in exaggerating their importance until they
overshadowed greater truths. She would do well hereafter to leave sociology
to sociologists.

The Sunday Evening Ethical Club was anathema. She must not go there
again nor to any similar place where veiled socialism and anarchy were
preached.

The confessor was rejoiced that her duty toward her husband and toward
herself, for the two duties were one, had been so unmistakably revealed to
her. Did the image of the other man ever trouble her mind?

Yes, Georgia acknowledged it did.

That was to be expected, in the beginning. But it would cease to trouble

her before long. Did this image occur to her often?

Yes, she said, it did—very often, almost continually. It was not always
actively before her, she explained, but it seemed never far away, as if it were
just beneath the surface of her ordinary thoughts.

In that case it would be impossible to absolve her and she would remain
in a state of mortal sin unless she would promise solemnly to refrain from all
further thoughts of that man, and if ever they arose unbidden to banish them
immediately, as an evil spirit is cast out from one possessed.

The priest waited, but the woman remained silent.

Did she remember, he asked severely, the words of our Savior, that "he
who looketh in lust, committeth adultery." If she kept this idol in her heart,
no priest had power to forgive her sins in His name. Her choice was before
her, her Lord or her flesh.

Her head was bowed, her hands clasped before her, and she felt tears
trickle slowly upon her knuckles.

"Oh, I promise, Father," she whispered, "to try never to think of him any
more, and to put him out of my mind—when—the thought comes—
unbidden."
 The sincerity of her intention was evident in the tones of her voice and
she was offered her penance; to be hereafter scrupulous in her religious
observances; to hear one mass a week besides the Sunday mass for two
months; to say her prayers night and morning always reverently on her
knees, not standing or in bed; with the addition of five Our Fathers and Hail
Marys night and morning until her penance was completed; to endeavor to
influence her family to go with her to Sunday mass each week; and to
examine her conscience daily.

The wise and gentle old priest had not been harsh with her, and she
accepted humbly and gratefully the penance he imposed.

He prayed to God to regard her mercifully and to lead her to eternal life,
then raising his right hand he recited over her the consecrated syllables of
the sacrament, ending with the solemn words of peace, Ego te absolvo a
peccatis in nomine Patris, here he made the sign of the cross, et Filii et
Spiritus Sancti. Amen. (I absolve thee from thy sins in the name of the Father
and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.)

Georgia left the confessional and went to the other part of the church to
pray for a clean and strengthened spirit.

The Sunday following she went with Jim, Al and Mrs. Talbot to the
cathedral where pontifical mass was celebrated. Encrusted with the
accumulated observances of centuries of faith, it is, perhaps, the most
intricate, aesthetic and impressive religious rite ever practiced by mankind.

From the archbishop seated on his throne, wearing his two-horned mitre
in sign of the two testaments, his emerald ring as spouse of the Church, his
silken tunic and dalmatic, his gloves of purity; with his shepherd's crosier in
his hand, his woolen pallium over his shoulders, bound with three golden
pins in memory of the three nails which fastened Him; from the archbishop
crowned with gold to the least acolyte in surplice of white to recall His life,
and cassock of black to recall His sorrow, the hierarchical symbolism is
complex, mysterious, complete, beautiful.

When Georgia, genuflecting and signing herself with holy water, passed
through the cathedral's double doors which prefigure the two sides of His
being, she felt as if she were coming home again after a long, unhappy
journey. The clustered shafts of the columns carried her eyes up to the high,
darkened groins of the roof. The south sun streamed in colors through the
saints of the windows. In the east, on the altar, the tall slender candles
burned purely.

The incense puffed from the swinging censer, like smoke, familiar and
pleasing to her. When the priest nine times uttered Kyrie eleison, the prayer
of fallen humanity, she felt as if a friend were interceding for her before a
great judge.

It made her proud to see the slow evolutions of the choir, regular and
disciplined, to hear as if far away their solemn chants in stately Latin, to feel
that she belonged to the same fabric of which they were a part.

As the service proceeded, the priests passing back and forth before the
altar making obeisance and kissing its holy stone in ancient and regular
form, the world outside receded continuously further from the people in the
church, and they became increasingly merged into one single, splendid act of
worship.

Holding the jewelled paten with its bread, above the jewelled chalice with
its wine, the archbishop made three signs of the cross to commemorate the
living hours of the crucifixion; then moving the paten he made two signs to
signify the separation of His soul and body. The altar bell tinkled, a symbol
of the convulsion of nature in that supreme hour. A great sigh went through
the Church.

Upon the altar before them was Christ Himself. What had been bread was
now become His real body; what had been wine was now become His actual
blood.... It is
 XXII
KANSAS CITY

Kansas City is growing vain and beautiful. She has, within recent years,
spent ten million dollars on her looks—not to increase her terminal facilities
or make her transit rapider—but simply and solely on her looks, to clear up
her complexion and improve her figure.

Beauty pays dividends to towns, as to women and gardeners. Since

Kansas City put in its park and boulevard system for ten million, adjoining
real estate has advanced twelve, or according to the inhabitants, fifteen
million.

Mason Stevens decided he would like to get transferred to Kansas City,

with a raise of salary. Then he could pick out a small house in the trees at the
end of one of the new macadam roads, and eventually go back and forth in a
Panno Six just as he had planned. He put in a good many odd hours with the
maps and prospectuses of proposed, suggested or hoped for subdivisions.

If he could arrange with Mr. Silverman to shift him, he would send for
Georgia and they would scout for a lot near a boulevard end. The land out
there was bound to appreciate in value as the town built up and the parkways
were still further extended. He would like to buy one lot for himself and
another for investment. He would have to buy on time, but that's an incentive
to a young business man.

He felt confident of Georgia's enchantment with the project. The view

from the bluffs was finer than anything one could get in Chicago for the
same money. Besides the process of social stratification was not so far along.
Kansas City was to Chicago as Chicago to New York, and New York to
London. Comers-up, like himself and Georgia, would be more important
more quickly in the smaller city.

Mason soon found out that there was not much to be said against Mr.
Plaisted, the local agent in chief, except that he was getting old. In routine
matters and methods he was excellent, but had ceased to be creative. In the
terminology of a great art, he had lost his wallop.
 It was the time when the big life companies were beginning their drive to
get business in block; to insure for one large premium paid in a lump sum,
the entire working force of a bank or business house. When the employe was
honorably retired, say at sixty or sixty-five, after a stipulated number of
years of steady work, he would be pensioned until he died, which pension
might in whole or in part be continued to his wife if she survived him. Or he
might receive, upon superannuation, an endowment equaling three years'
salary. If he died before retirement his relict might become the beneficiary of
an ordinary life policy. There were still other plans and combinations and
permutations thereof, whose details were more or less veiled in a haze of
actuarial figures, but whose broad effects were alike calculated to incite
fidelity in the employe by holding out to him the prospect of a comfortable
decline if he stuck to his employer through youth and middle age.

Mason quickly reported to Mr. Silverman that within six months the New
England Life had written two such block policies for corporations and that
three other rival companies had secured one each, while the Eastern had
obtained none.

Silverman telegraphed sharply to Plaisted, "Why don't you get any

corporation business in bulk! Our competitors do."

Mr. Plaisted responded with a laborious letter of explanation.

Then it developed that the New England Life had things already in shape
for a third big deal—the Phosphate National Bank. Mason got the first wind
of it, not in Kansas City, but by a direct tip from Mr. Silverman in New York,
with instructions to investigate promptly. Within six hours he was able to
report back that the proposed premium would exceed five thousand dollars a
year, and furthermore that the Phosphate Trust & Savings, being controlled
by the same parties as the Phosphate National, was preparing to follow its
lead. That would make four banks for the New England in half a year and
greatly increase its already disturbing prestige.

Silverman answered, "Immediately use all proper methods secure

Phosphate business for us. We must maintain prestige. Authorize you act
independently Plaisted your discretion. Draw on me in reason."
 Mason drew on him for one thousand dollars, and obtained two five
hundred dollar bills, one of which, after duly cautious preliminaries, he
handed to the cashier, the other to the auditor of the Phosphate National.
Again, after duly cautious preliminaries, they accepted. These two
gentlemen had been detailed a committee to draw up for the convenience of
the bank's Board of Directors an analytical syllabus of the differing
propositions offered by the competing insurance companies. The Eastern
Life got the Phosphate National's business, followed by that of its subsidiary,
the Trust & Savings Bank, and Mason got Mr. Silverman's congratulations.

Two days later Silverman walked unexpectedly into Plaisted's office.

Plaisted, who had just that instant signed his name to a letter addressed to his
visitor in New York, was rattled.

"Mr. Plaisted," said Mr. Silverman, biting off the end of a three-for-a-
dollar, "I have found out what is the trouble, that is, the main trouble with
your agency here."

Plaisted winced. He hadn't realized that there was any trouble, and
certainly not any main trouble with his agency. "Yes, Mr. Silverman."

"You're undermanned."

"Why, yes—perhaps. I've thought of breaking in a few new agents this

winter."

"No," said Silverman, "I mean you're undermanned at the top. Weak on
the executive side."

"Oh," said Plaisted.

"You need new blood, new ideas, new life, hustle," he snapped his fingers
with each successive word—"speed—force—energy—vigor— enterprise—
vitality—dynamics—do you get me?"

"I—yes—I'm sure I do," answered Plaisted, in considerable apprehension.

"I suggest therefore that you appoint young Stevens—you have met
him?"
 "Yes," answered Plaisted, who detested the ground Mason walked on, "I
have met him."

"I suggest you appoint him as your first assistant," remarked Mr.
Silverman, calmly eyeing Plaisted. "He will take the burden of details off
your shoulders."

"I—ah—don't know, Mr. Silverman, if that would be entirely wise. You

see our methods—his and mine—"

"I have made my suggestion, Mr. Plaisted," answered Silverman slowly.

"In my judgment that would be the best thing to do."

The two men looked at each other until at last Plaisted dropped his eyes
murmuring, "I will think it over."

"I leave at two. I should like to know your decision before then."

Plaisted yielded by telephone within half an hour.

He wasn't deprived of the corner room; he would continue to sign

General Agent after his name. But he realized bitterly that he had left to him
only the shadow of his long authority. The substance had passed to the
young stranger.

At the beginning of the following year Plaisted was granted a six months'
leave of absence with pay, and soon after his return resigned. He now travels
peevishly from Palm Beach to Paris and back again in company with a valet-
nurse.

Georgia's letter of farewell came in the afternoon mail, just after Mr.
Silverman's departure. Mason read it over every night for a month and found
it bad medicine for sleep. The lines in his shrewd face deepened perceptibly.
Finally he locked the letter up in his safe deposit vault, and seemed to rest
better afterwards.

He dickered with the hotel for room and bath by the year and got thirty-
three per cent off. He was known by his office force as a hard man to please.
 XXIII
THE LAST OF THE OLD MAN

Georgia pressed the knob of the time clock at fifteen minutes to nine the
next morning. When she opened her locker to hang up her hat and jacket she
discovered a novel which she had drawn from a circulating library six weeks
before and which had been costing her two cents a day ever since, a box of
linen collars, an umbrella she thought she had lost, and a shirt waist done up
in paper.

She went from the locker hall into the room of the office, half expecting
to find it changed in some way, but everything was the same. The same
clerks were stoop-shouldered over the same desks, the same young auditor
was lolling back in his swivel chair, pulling his stubby mustache, his elbow
on the low mahogany railing that marked him off from his assistants. That
was how he always began the day. At nine precisely he would ring for a
stenographer and dictate from notes. He never dictated straight from his
head, probably because his work was so full of figures.

Georgia was taken back by the casual way in which she was greeted.
Several arose and shook hands and were briefly glad to see her again; others
simply nodded a good morning. An oldish bookkeeper asked, "Been away,
haven't you?"

The girls of the lunch club, however, welcomed her warmly as they came
in one after the other and found her seated at her old desk, just outside the
old man's door. But even they, she felt with a twinge of bitterness, failed to
grasp the stupendousness of her experience.

Since last she had been in the office she had knocked at the gate of death
and lost her lover and found her faith, yet the people of the office seemingly
perceived no change in her except that she was pale.
 All that they knew of her was the surface and that, she reflected, was all
she knew of them. Perhaps during her absence the oldest bookkeeper had
received notice to quit at the end of the year and dreaded to tell his invalid
wife; perhaps he had had a daughter die, not recover, from typhoid; or his
son had gone to prison or received a hero medal or become a licensed
aviator.

The young auditor might be frowning and pulling his mustache because
he had recently acquired a chorus lady for a stepmother. The tall, red-puffed
girl with the open-work waist and abrupt curves might, as had been
suspected, be no better than she should be. It wouldn't surprise Georgia
greatly if that was so.

But, she reflected, what of it? None of them mattered to her, just as she
mattered to none of them.

For everyone she supposed it was much the same; four or five people one
knew and the rest strangers.

She slipped some paper into the machine to try her fingers. She wrote
hadn't, "hand't" and stenographer, "stonegrapher." She was not pleased to
find whoever had been subbing for her had put a black ribbon on her
machine. She liked purple better.

Mechanically she pulled at the upper left-hand drawer where she had kept
her note books and pencils, but it was locked. And she didn't have the key.
She had sent it by Al from the hospital.

Miss Gerson walked briskly to the desk. "Oh," she said, "Miss Connor,
you're back."

"Yes. How do you do!" They shook hands.

"That's fine—you do look a little pale—we were all so sorry to hear of

your illness. I've been your understudy," she gave a little sigh, "using your
desk. I'm afraid its cluttered up with my things. If I'd only known you were
returning to-day I'd have left it spick and span for you." She took out the key
and unlocked the master drawer, which released the others, and removed her
notebook, pencils, erasers, some picture postal cards, a broken-crystalled
lady's watch, an apple and a book on etiquette.

"I think the old man's just fine to work for, don't you!" she asked as she
collected her belongings.

"Indeed I do," said Georgia jealously. "Will you be at the club for lunch
to-day?"

"Indeed I will," responded Miss Gerson, departing.

The telephone tinkled on Georgia's desk.

"Hello," came the voice, "is this Miss Gerson?"

"Did you wish to speak to her personally?"

"I wish to speak with Miss Gerson, Mr. Tatton's secretary."

"This is his secretary," said Georgia.

"This is St. Luke's hospital," said the voice. "Mr. Tatton wants you to take
a cab and come right down here to see him, and say—hello—I'm not through
—bring your typewriter. Right away."

The old man was propped up in a chair, fully dressed, when Georgia
arrived. "Oh, Miss Connor," he said when he saw her, "I wasn't expecting
you. All the better, though. Glad you're well again. I'm not." He held his
hand to his side and seemed to have difficulty with his breathing.

"Take this," he said. "Date it and write: Codicil. And I hereby declare and
publish, being of sound mind and body, and in the presence of witnesses,
that I do now revoke and cancel and make of no effect and void, in whole
and in part, the clause numbered seven—then put also figure seven in
parenthesis—in the foregoing instrument, will and testament of date July
second, nineteen hundred and five. I expressly withdraw and withhold all the
bequests therein made, named and stipulated."
 Georgia took his words directly on the machine. A nurse and an interne
witnessed his signature.

"Now," said the old man, "take this in shorthand, to my wife, care Platz &
Company, Bankers, 18 Rue Scribe, Paris, France.

"Dear Marion: Except for those three pleasant days last summer we
haven't seen each other for six years, and as you will know long before you
read this, we shan't see each other alive again.

"I deeply regret that, especially of later years, our marriage has been so
unsuccessful. I apprehend clearly that the fault lay with me insofar as I—
quote—had grown so very prosy—end quote—as you remarked last
summer.

"My last wish is that you will bring Elsie home and keep her here until
she marries some decent American with an occupation. Underline those last
three words, Miss Connor. She is now a young woman of seventeen, and it
was evident to me last summer that her head is fast becoming stuffed with
nonsense. She is learning to look down on her country and her countrymen
and mark my words—underline mark my words, Miss Connor—if you
encourage her to marry some foreign scamp she will be very unhappy. I
know you don't agree with these views, but I know they are sound, and if
you keep Elsie over there you will live to see that proved; although I hope
not.

"Give my love to Elsie and remind her of her old dad now and then.

"Good-bye, Marion. You and Elsie are the only women I ever loved.

"That's all, Miss Connor. Now what I want you to do is this: If I don't
come out of this operation—appendicitis—please write that up and mail it.
Just sign it Fred. If I do get well, destroy your notes and don't send the letter.

"Oh, you better add a postscript—P.S. I am dictating this because I have

neither the time nor the strength to write myself. I was attacked suddenly."

Two nurses and a doctor who had been waiting now gathered about the
old man, lifted him gently to the bed and began to undress him. He held out
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