All round the room, stopping
only at the fireplace, ran low shelves of the same yellow pine, filled
with books and magazines. He scanned curiously Plato's Republic, Gorky's
"Comrades," a Cyclopaedia of Agriculture, Balzac's novels, Spencer's
"First Principles," Tennyson's Poems.
"This is my university," Zora explained, smiling at his interested
survey. They went out again and wandered down near the old lagoon.
"Now, Bles," she began, "since we understand each other, can we not work
together as good friends?" She spoke simply and frankly, without
apparent effort, and talked on at length of her work and vision.
Somehow he could not understand. His mental attitude toward Zora had
always been one of guidance, guardianship, and instruction. He had been
judging and weighing her from on high, looking down upon her with
thoughts of uplift and development. Always he had been holding her dark
little hands to lead her out of the swamp of life, and always, when in
senseless anger he had half forgotten and deserted her, this vision of
elder brotherhood had still remained. Now this attitude was being
revolutionized. She was proposing to him a plan of wide scope--a bold
regeneration of the land. It was a plan carefully studied out, long
thought of and read about. He was asked to be co-worker--nay, in a sense
to be a follower, for he was ignorant of much.
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