III + 

He walked all the way up to their inconsiderable hotel in the Thirties, and all the way the crowds stared at him⁠—this slim, pale, black-eyed, beaming young man who thrust among them, half-running, seeing nothing yet in a blur seeing everything: gallant buildings, filthy streets, relentless traffic, soldiers of fortune, fools, pretty women, frivolous shops, windy sky. His feet raced to the tune of “I’ve found my work, I’ve found my work, I’ve found my work!” + 

Leora was awaiting him⁠—Leora whose fate it was ever to wait for him in creaky rocking-chairs in cheapish rooms. As he galloped in she smiled, and all her thin, sweet body was illumined. Before he spoke she cried: + 

“Oh, Sandy, I’m so glad!” + 

She interrupted his room-striding panegyrics on Max Gottlieb, on the McGurk Institute, on New York, on the charms of staphylolysin, by a meek “Dear, how much are they going to pay you?” + 

He stopped with a bump. “Gosh! I forgot to ask!” + 

“Oh!” + 

“Now you look here! This isn’t a Rouncefield Clinic! I hate these buzzards that can’t see anything but making money⁠—” + 

“I know, Sandy. Honestly, I don’t care. I was just wondering what kind of a flat we’ll be able to afford, so I can begin looking for it. Go on. Dr. Gottlieb said⁠—” + 

It was three hours after, at eight, when they went to dinner. + 