August Turnbull was disturbed by the sudden arrest of his progress, and
gazing out saw the insignificant cause of delay. He had again removed
his hat and a frown drew a visible heavy line between his eyes.
"More police are needed for these crossings," he complained to the
chauffeur; "there is the same trouble every evening. The city shouldn't
encourage such rabbles; they give the place a black eye."
All the immediate section, he silently continued, ought to be torn down
and rebuilt in solid expensive structures. It made him hot and
uncomfortable just to pass through the shabby quarter. The people in it
were there for the excellent reason that they lacked the ambition, the
force to demand better things. They got what they deserved.
August Turnbull made an impatient movement of contempt; the world,
success, was for the strong men, the men who knew what they wanted and
drove for it in a straight line. There was a great deal of foolishness
in the air at present--the war was largely responsible; though, on the
other hand, the war would cure a lot of nonsense. But America in
particular was rotten with sentimentality; it was that mainly which had
involved them here in a purely European affair. Getting into it had
been bad business.
Nowhere was the nation's failing more evident than in the attitude
toward women. It had always been maudlin; and now, long content to use
their advantages in small ways, women would become a serious menace to
the country generally.
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