Soul toys

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Gowriglll N°_ Sot

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I The World of Passion. 9

II The Universe of Business.35

Chapter I

New York and Paris, twin capitals in the World of Passion! Ever producing and molding world citizens, and bowing allegiance only to King Passion and Queen Love!

In the process of being molded, Clare Emerson sat on the edge, of a table in the palm-fenced tea room of the Hotel Modore, lightly swinging her silken-clad limbs and daintily puffing a cigarette, held to her lips as though a rose whose fragrance she was enjoying, and gazing out into the busy lobby. Her blue spangled evening gown seemed part of her slight but well rounded figure, with its crown of bobbed golden hair. Her blue eyes danced merrily as she turned to her companion, uptilting her peach-like cheeks and small, perfectly formed features.

“You are hardly dressed to take me anywhere,” she mur¬ mured, as though answering a remark of the man beside her.

The latter looked down at his loose fitting Norfolk outing suit and his white shoes, then felt his soft collar. He was tall and broad shouldered; muscular but slender and well knit. As he straightened himself, he looked the typical athlete.

“I guess you are right,” he gave reluctantly the result of his observation, “but I never think much about clothes. Clare, do they make such a difference ? ”

“Now, Jean Wildner, you know I would be the laughing stock of all New York, if I went with you to the theatre in that outfit—not that I care,” the girl added hastily, “but there are certain conventions to which one must conform, certain things that simply aren’t done.”

As she smiled, his bronzed face with its arched brows, serious, penetrating eyes, and sensitive mouth, seemed good-naturedly to speak rebellion at these social necessities, like an overgrown boy who begs for long pants. He shook his head in annoyance, his thick light hair tumbling about.

“You do not seem to live up to them yourself,” he pointed to her cigarette, “I can’t see why we must recognize the silly rules of past generations. We live to-day, why not govern our own selves?” he spoke with conviction, more asserting than questioning.

“Really, smoking is quite proper nowadays,” she insisted, smiling still, “but your little speech might have come from your brother’s stock. He always uses it against my protest at his ‘kiss me/ his usual demand even in public places. I almost have to hold him off at arm’s length. He too, says, ‘What do we care for conventions?’ but in a little stronger language. Anyway, I couldn’t go with you to-night, because I promised Cornie to see how fast he can drive his new Mercer. But truly if you were dressed now I might have run away and played with you—but here he comes with his body-guard.” She turned to the men approaching with a hearty, “Hello boys! How are the Heart-Mates to-night?”

Cornelius M. Wildner, Jr., in an immaculate tuxedo, flanked on either side by his ever attendant friends, James Vanduyne, familiarly called Jim, and Edward Philbrick, known as Eddie, came toward the couple. As if trained in a chorus, together they said, “Glad to see you Clare,—how are you, Jean?”

Where is Clay?” asked Clare. “You know when I christened you the Heart-Mates, I expected you always to be together. And how are the Soul-Mates ?” she asked as she turned to Jean.

“They are waiting for their ex-officio member to attend a meeting,” he said laughingly.

“One has to be invited you know,” was her answer, “because I am the name-giver does not give me free admission.”

“Look at the devil!” Eddie exclaimed as he pointed to Cornie. The latetr had a habit of passing his hands repeat¬ edly through his hair when he was annoyed or excited, and his bushy black locks, parted carefully in the center, when fluffed up looked like two horns. He glanced into a nearby mirror and smoothed his disheveled hair.

“Take you choice, Clare; the devil,” Eddie gave Cornie a thump on his back, “or the saint,” as he did the same to Jean. “They both fall, sooner or later.”

Clare was annoyed at the way Jean was being embarrassed and felt that it was because she was with him. Turning to him she said, “Now run along, this is the night that I have been asked to attend the meeting of the Heart-Mates, so good-bye.”

At once, with a nod to the others and a wave of the hand as he approached the door, Jean left the hotel.

Hardly had he departed when Jim blurted out, “I don’t see how you can pay any attention to that boob, Clare. He is too highbrow for me.”

“Remember he is my brother,” interjected Cornelius. “And if he is odd, I will not stand for any talk like that about him.”

“He has observed the golden rule, till he’s become the golden fool,” Eddie contributed scornfully.

“You poll-parrot! ” was the epithet Cornie angrily threw at him.

“Now boys, stop your quarreling. You know Jean is a perfectly dandy fellow, and I like him ever so much,” as¬ serted Clare. “But where are you going to take me this evening, or are we going to stay here all night discussing Jean’s personality?”

T beg your pardon, Clare,” said Cornelius, “we believe we have planned a very pleasant evening, the boys are going to meet Horto and Tillie; later, Clay is going to bring his sister, and we are all going to run down to Long Beach and dance, and you will have a chance to see how my Mercer acts.”

“How wonderful! ” enthused the girl; “I will hurry up¬ stairs, get my cape and be ready in a moment.”

After she had left them, Jim said to Cornie, “Your brother seems to have a stand-in; if you aren’t careful, he will cut you out.”

“I am not afraid,” was the quiet reply; “but I can't un¬ derstand what she sees in him. He bores me to death, for all he talks about is soul desires, perfection of mind, and Hell knows what! ”

“Well,” said his companion, “they seem to fall for that stuff, but I didn’t think a girl as full of pep as Clare, would do so. Here she comes now.”

They went out together, Clare and Cornie climbing into the new Mercer, while the others went to call for their re¬ spective partners.

Skillfully threading his way through the heavy traffic, Cor¬ nie soon was speeding along the Merrick Road. As they left the crowded city behind them Clare unconsciously be¬ gan to feel that the silent man beside her, all attention to the mechanism of his new car, might in reality be his brother Jean. She recalled the many rides that she and the latter had taken, each silently immersed in thought too deep for expression, even to the other. Suddenly, as they slowed down in passing through Jamaica, Cornie broke the silence.

Some car, eh? I let her out on that last smooth stretch to seventy miles; bet you didn’t think it was over forty.”

Clare simply nodded her head, but thought, “That is the difference between them. This one does not see the green grass, the tall stately trees, the sky or clouds, only speed, speed! He wants to rush like this through life.”

“We will make it in forty minutes at this rate,” he ex¬ claimed excitedly.

Clare loved speed; to drive fast, fly high, and dive deep; but she never forgot the beauty of her surroundings or lost interest in her companions. To-night, this rushing seemed frivolous and foolish. She almost longed for Jean to whis¬ per the beauties of the universe to her.

Finally the car shot up to the “Nassau,” and they entered the lobby to find that they had preceded the others' of their party.

“We are going to ‘Castles-by-the-Sea’ to dance,” Cornie said, “but let’s stroll along the ocean before we go there; we have loads of time.”

“I simply adore the ocean,” asserted Clare, “it seems so— so everlastingly human. Did you ever notice, Cornie, it always looks the same, one wave after the other, just as we always retain our same outward features. Still at times it is tempestuous, the waves roar, reach heights which seem impossible, and then sink down again to calmness and smoothness. We too, have our moods, our stormy times— our moments of grandeur and of despondency—of calmness and quietude.”

“You talk like Jean,” was the curt response, “I can’t see anything but water, mighty fine to go bathing in, and sailing and motor-boating when its’s smooth, and dandy to fish in, but a hell of a place when it’s rough. I’m strong for wet stuff, but give me Mr. Dryland every time. I get sea-sick without much hesitation.”

“You old materialist! ” Clare dubbed him laughingly. “You are incurable. Surely, you must enjoy the ocean’s salty fragrance,” as she breathed deeply.

“Well, this mushy stuff of my brother’s makes me sick.

I love beauty—in women—yes—and in men too. I love statuary and pictures of human beings. To me, there is nothing higher, more beautiful than the human form. But I can’t see anything in pictures of houses or flowers or whatnot, and I can’t rave about my soul—when I don’t know whether I have one or not.”

“Oh, the human form is lovely, adorable, of course, but you surely must see the beauty of the rose and the balancings of the clouds and all the wonders of nature,” she returned seriously.

“I take those things for granted. We do not make a fuss about our breathing, our smelling and other senses, why only of everything we see? We have the perfect form of nature in a beautiful woman. Why bother about anything else ? ”

“But women are not all there is in the world,” the girl suggested. “And there is a beauty in feeling too—for instance—in the enjoyment of good music.”

“I only like jazz,” the man retorted. “The female form is the perfection and end of the sunshine and the flowers, the water and the air. All helped to make woman what she is to-day—the highest expression of nature—with a perfect form and a beautiful face—what more can one ask? Clare, you are to me that final word,” he finished wistfully.

“Flatterer! You know I am too thin to be a ‘perfect 36’ and we would better be getting on to the ‘Castles’ or the rest of the crowd will wonder what has become of us. They surely have gone there by now.”

“Not before I ask you to be my wife! Clare, you know I adore you!” he avowed, grasping her arm impulsively.

“Oh Cornie, that is just it, you adore me—you say! You worship every fair looking girl, but that isn’t love! No, Cornie, please don’t ask me to answer you now, and do let my arm go, you hurt! ”

“You must realize that to me, adoration is love. I can give you everything—not only now, but you know Dad is pretty old and there are only Jean and I to share his millions. Let me make you the best dressed girl in America! You don’t know what unique ideas I have in girls’ clothes— you ought to see what I have designed—and jewels! Say, I would be Tiffany’s best customer for you!” He held out an alluring bait. “Why not say yes? Do say yes! You will be sorry if you don’t.” His voice as he finished sounded like the whine of a wolf, hungry for its prey.

“Not now, I couldn’t—maybe some day. Something seems to tell me, intuition or foreboding I believe it is called, that I will say ‘yes’ sometime, but not now,” Clare answered thoughtfully.

“You called my crowd Heart-Mates, because we are always seeking to find the perfect girl. Why not be my Heart-Mate?” He feverishly continued his urging, not sensing her indifference to his pleadings.

“I called them Heart-Mates because they seek only the perfect body; so your heart seeks a mate for your passions, not your soul! ” she retorted sharply.

The effect of her words was electrical in the swiftness of the reply they brought. “I suppose you want a Soul- Mate like Jean; that is why you called his bunch Soul- Mates,” he sneered.

“Don’t be nasty, Cornie, I do like Jean, and I like you too. Jean really seeks a Soul-Mate, his whole life is beautiful. What I want—my soul desire—is to find a real mate, a Heart and Soul-Mate, mind and matter; do you understand ? A man who is not one-sided but all-sided—not perfect but human and natural. Come, we are a long way from the ‘Castles/ almost down to the ‘Brighton.’ We must hurry or they will think your wonderful new car trailed behind their old busses.” Clare spoke lightly to relieve the tension.

“You may pay dearly for your soul desire!” Cornie warned her solemnly; but the girl only shrugged her shoulders, as if to say she did not count the risk.

As they proceeded rapidly along the cement walk they were being discussed by their waiting friends. “Clare is certainly one fine girl/’ remarked Jim Vanduyne. “She is what I call the typical up-to-date, modern American girl. Her folks are no end rich, but she isn’t the least bit snobbish. Her college course seemed to broaden her and still let her retain her sweet feminine character, instead of stamping her an over-educated high-brow.”

“Listen to the oration,” laughingly shouted Attilie Freer, always called Tillie by her intimate friends. “Someone has said, ‘American men love to hear themselves express their own opinions better than anything else.’ There is the horrid example! ”

“I wouldn’t complain if he’d say such fine things about me, behind my back, I’ll tell the world,” observed little Meta Murray.

“You know all men love little girls,” Eddie teased her, “and we are no exception.”

This dainty whisp of femininity was attired in an orchid colored organdy frock with hat to match. Her complexion was also the same shade; this effect being caused either from the reflection of her costume or some touch added to nature.

“No shrinking violet, but an expensive orchid, that little lady is,” Jim commented.

“Well what about us? ” asked Tillie, as she looked toward Hortense Leaman, usually called Horto. “Are we two nebs not worthy of the gossip of your lordships?”

“Why you Titian-haired beauty—you symphony in blue!” exploded Jim, as he looked at Tillie. Then as he turned to Horto, “And you baby doll with the big rolling eyes, the lady in black, what could we say about you, that has not already been said a million times? Our hats are off to the best examples of the genus American flapper now extant,” he continued. “Who does not appreciate the confidant carriage, the daring clothes, the elaborate make-up, and realize that you have added to the beauty, as well as the gayety, of the world? Look at the pictures of our mothers, God bless them, in their girlhood days. Can you conceive of your¬ selves in cotton stockings, skirts dragging along the ground, hair in tight little knots or big pompadors—and shiny noses and white faces ? ”

“They surely were prim and proper,” supplemented Meta, “and it wasn’t so very long ago either. Think how hard it must have been for the poor girl with dull, mouse-colored hair and sallow complexion. She and her friends, had to live with them all their lives; now one can suit her own taste.”

“The male contingent of this party admit that they are the best bunch of pickers in little old New York,” announced the glib-tongued Eddie. “And I’ll say that’s going some! ”

“Sure,” added Jim, “you should be highly complimented that you are here with us.”

“Listen to the conceited fops,” Horto labeled them. “Look at Cornie coming in with Clare! Talk about Beauty and the Beast—I suppose she should be tickled to death to walk with that ugly duckling! I don’t care if he is your friend—he is ugly! Look at him, big features, broad nose, shaggy eye¬ brows with little eyes, like jet beads sunk way in—wrinkled forehead, short and—no, he isn’t fat, but stocky. And his hair like two horns, the way he parts the bushy black waves in the center.”

“Gee whiz, he sure must have snubbed the black-eyed beauty, all righto!” declared Jim. “I’ll admit Cornie isn’t a Greek god like his brother, but the chap has his good points—a wonderful personality is not the least of them— he always radiates optimism and good fellowship.”

“I detest handsome men,” Meta came to Cornie’s defense.

“I think a rugged, homely man is more masculine. I agree with you, Jim, there is something different about him—he draws you to him—makes you like him and holds you, too.”

“Fight it out,” Eddie advised; and then as the couple came closer, he hailed them: “Hello Cornie! Hello Clare! Say Cornie, what have you been doing to the Leaman wo¬ man? She has been singing your praises somethin’ awful— until the Clay girl came to your rescue.”

“Hello, people! ” was Clare’s greeting, as Cornie gave them each a robust handshake and smirkingly showed his gratification that he had been the topic of their conversation. “I suppose we have been properly dissected by our friends, but here we are, still whole. We had a dandy walk and in what time do vou think we covered the trip?”

“Oh, I suppose fifty seconds,” Jim bantered.

“No, we didn’t use the airship this time, boys,” replied Cornie, “but we did make it in forty minutes—which is go¬ ing some, I’ll say.”

“It’s almost nine-thirty,” Eddie told them. “If we are going to carry out our plan to hold a meeting of the Heart- Mates on the beach, we better start dancing and get that part through. Let’s go,” as he lifted little Meta Clay from her chair and swung her off into a fox-trot to the tune of the latest dance-compelling “Blues.”

“Some jazz!” Cornie praised the exuberant music as he teetered to and fro with Clare closely pressed to him. He waved to the ’cellist, sawing wildly and lifting himself from his chair in a regular and furious rhythm like a nervous girl in a riding school. Clare smiled at the blonde cornetist as he hung an old hat over the bell of his shining instrument and brought forth a weird blast.

“You sure are some stepper,” Clare told Cornie as he took a flying dip when the clarinet outsquealed the rest of the band.

“Some gang,” Jim shouted to Cornie above the furious drum-beats as they drew their partners into a little air pocket in the crowded floor. “Say, don’t forget our date to-morrow at the ‘Studio/ ” he added.

“The Studio ? ” Clare questioned.

“Didn’t you know I mold the clay now and then? You must come down to the Village and see it,” Cornie answered.

“A Greenwich Village sculptor, eh? Since when the practical application of your artistic temperament? I’ll bet there is a kick in it somewhere. Let’s see, is it a model ? or maybe you needed a headquarters in the ‘District’ ? ”

“Perhaps both! ” he replied.

Chapter II

An hour later they gathered in a circle on the beach to hold their meeting. Waiters from the “Castles” brought gingerale. Pocket-flasks quickly appeared to add the touch that makes all the world akin: eight cigarettes were soon giving forth their fragrance, and the “brisk bunch of the younger set” as they were designated by their fellow-members of New York’s so-called “Four Hundred,” were prepared for business.

“Before I can call this session to order,” announced Cornie, “I must ask the non-members to retire.”

“Oh, I say,” called out Eddie, “why can’t the other girls stay? I know Clare is the only ex-officio member, because she originated the club, but the other girls ought to be in it, too.”

“Of course,” agreed Cornie, “I only wanted someone to suggest it. Meta Clay, Tillie Freer, and Horto Leaman, you are all members of the Heart-Mates. Boys, present arms! ”

Immediately, four pairs of arms circled four slender waists.

“I don’t like this a bit,” objected Meta. “I really do not enjoy being pawed over by you, Eddie.”

“You ought to be used to it by now. If I kept my dis¬ tance, believe me, you would resent it very quickly.”

“I am no iceberg, Eddie,” rejoined Meta, “but I wouldn’t cry if you never came near me. I don’t want to be rare, like jade—but neither do I wish to be common, like stone.”

“Listen to the words of wisdom,” Jim mocked her. “Those are big words from such a little lady.”

“Well, I don’t care, a girl has to be careful,” Tillie plunged into the discussion. “Once she lets a man take an inch, he wants a yard.”

“I agree with you,” Meta said; “we must scatter the ashes before we start to slip.”

“Her sex should be her protection among gentlemen,” Clare thrust out with dignity.

“To the contrary,” Cornie parried, “when a woman is beautiful and fascinating, her sex is a challenge and not a defense.”

Clare puckered her finely chiseled lips and brought a scowl to her clear brow. “I don’t like that at all, at all,” she declared with feeling.

“Well it’s the truth,” he persisted; “and now I must use the official seal to open the meeting.” Unexpectedly he drew Clare to him and pressed a kiss on her lips, still puckered in protest.

“Now, Cornie, I ask you, is that nice ? ” Clare complained crossly as she pulled away.

“Clare’s an old-fashioned prude! ” Meta dubbed her.

“I am, am I? I’ll show you. Clay Murray, come here this very minute! ”

The man called responded with alacrity, and when he stood in front of her, Clare demanded: “Kiss me, my fool! ” pursing her lips in readiness. Clay met them full with his and so they remained as the rest cried: “Hold it! Hold it! Mm! Oh! Ah! Booh!”

“Jealous cats! ” Clay shouted as he returned to his place.

“You see, I bestow my lips on whom I choose, I don’t like thieves,” Clare told them proudly.

“All men are thieves when the opportunity is presented to steal kisses from beautiful women,” Cornie retorted. “But that is the very question we are to discuss! ‘What influence do beautiful women have on men’s lives and what effect do males have on gorgeous females?’ With this as the topic of the evening, I call to order the meeting of the Heart- Mates,’’ was Cornie’s final answer to her protest.

The beautiful September moon looked down with a smile on these votaries of Beauty and Passion, and seemed to beckon them to tread the silvery path over the gleaming waters to a Pleasure Globe—a World of Passion! The old Atlantic, too, urged them on by intoning a soft accompani¬ ment to their voices with the continuous rolling of its waves, like soft drum-beats.

Cornie called the meeting to order with a jocular rollcall: “Cornelius M. Wildner, Jr., Chairman, high-priest of the cult of the Beautiful, eldest son of Cornelius M. Wildner, Sr., international banker,” and in a falsetto voice answered, “Present.”

“James Vanduyne, Chief-assistant seeker of good-looking girls, department store proprietor by inheritance.”

“All here and all in,” replied the gentleman named.

“Edward Philbrick, second aid in the admiration of female Birds of Paradise, grandson of James Philbrick, pioneer railroad builder.”

“I am here, too,” he declared.

“Clay Murray, head of the department of love-making, only member in captivity who earns his own living and glories in the fact. He says he does not envy the idle rich, but note, fellow-priests—and what shall I call the girls?—Virgins of the Temple—he is trying hard to amass enough filthy lucre to break into that same despised class! ”

“Here and not guilty,” affirmed and denied Clay.

“Now for the ladies—Clare Emerson—only daughter of the ‘Radio King/ Walter Emerson. She is the most beauti¬ ful girl—of her type—please note, girls, I am very diplo¬ matic,—in New York.”

“Ready for business,” was Clare’s rebuke.

“Attilie Freer, lone orphan, rolling in wealth and ex¬ ponent of the latest shades in hair.”

“I refuse to answer,” she pouted.

“Hortense Leaman, originator of the baby-stare, and Father Knickerbocker’s most dignified young lady, just from finishing school, but not gummed up with haughtiness if she is the daughter of a famous chewing-gum magnate.”

“Present,” she responded briefly.

“Finally, Meta Murray, sister of Clay, the biggest little girl in the whole country.”

“I protest against the unseemly mirth of our chairman,” she announced with mock seriousness.

“Now that we are all here, I am going to ask the lady who named the club and brought it into existence, to give her reason for so doing.”

“Well,” began Clare, “I don’t think that I was ever with any of the four gentlemen present, when they passed a beautiful girl without commenting in some such fashion as: ‘Look at that girl, Clare, isn’t she a corker?—I tell you there is nothing to equal a beautiful young girl! ’ or: ‘There is a queen, I wish I knew who she is! ’ And then I hap¬ pened several times to break into a discussion of feminine beauty that these gallants were having, and heard our friend Cornie repeatedly say: ‘The only thing that is really beauti¬ ful, is the human form in Woman! I love it in its natural state. I admire it in marble and on canvas—naught else matters. It stirs my heart—it makes me a mate to every beautiful girl! Her sole purpose on earth is to satisfy Man’s tastes and appetites.’ Jim and Eddie are always boasting of their latest female conquests, and asserting that the divine beauty of feminine flesh is life itself to them. Now that is why I say that they are Heart-Mates. They seek the fleshly beauty. Beauty and love are alone things of earth— heart to heart.”

“Bravo! ” declared Cornie; “better said than I could have put it myself; only I want to add, that the last speaker is the embodiment of all my hopes and passions.”

“Now, I really do think perfection of physique is won¬ derful,” broke in Meta, “but physical beauty is so much a thing of chance, and you know ‘beauty is only skin deep/ ”

“That’s deep enough for me, old dear,” Eddie cried reck¬ lessly. “I could never love a homely girl! The beautiful girl is a combination of the glory of the sunshine and the coloring of the flowers. She is Nature’s pet! ”

“To me,” said Clay, “there is a divine idea in the beauty of Aphrodite. I can remember still when I saw the spectacle, the majesty of that dreamy form.”

“Why is it that women are always the main topic of men’s conversation? ” asked Horto. “They glory in their captures, and I know that the ugliest little shrimp will try to make his fellow-seekers believe he is a heart-breaker.”

“The pursuit of Woman is Man’s oldest pastime. We don’t carry them off on horse-back any more—now it’s by auto or airship,” explained Cornie.

“I have no objection to being talked about,” replied Meta, “but I resent the lack of respect which reflects on every man’s mother, sister, and sweetheart. One would really think every woman was waiting for her prince to take her and ready to grant his every wish, while we know that only few women are untrue to themselves and most are as chaste as Diana,” she finished as she dabbed her nose with powder.

“Most women like to lead the men to think they are ready to be very naughty, but when the latter start to overstep the line they draw back,” added Tillie with a sophisticated grimace.

“Yes,” Clare observed, “they think their desire is like that of the moth for the star, but too often they end up by letting it become the fatal desire of the moth for the candle flame! ”

“The deliciousness of love and the restfulness of beauty,” contributed Clay, “should not be spoiled by the occasional lapse.”

“You mean the capacity to enjoy should not be troubled by Man’s soul,” Clare intensified his expression as she looked at Clay.

“We men are natural animals; how can we be calm in the presence of beauty ? ” was his confession.

“You deny the very beauty of the thing you admire, when you refuse to recognize the spirit within; no woman can be really beautiful who has not a spiritual calm behind the out¬ ward mask, however wonderful the latter may be,” she maintained with feeling.

“What about the gorgeous demi-mondes ? ” inquired Clay.

“Even common women have souls. You remember the religious fervor of Arnold’s ‘Pretty Lady’! And then, early training sometimes leaves an impress that never vanishes; but usually, real beauty does not last long with that type,” answered Clare with surprising insight.

“I can’t love Beauty in the abstract,” persisted Cornie; “I suppose I do carry my ideas to an extreme—just as my brother Jean sees no beauty in anything but the spirit and the soul. I do not believe there is any intelligence in love, it is instinct. My love of beauty in human form is naturally attracted to every beautiful girl, but I can only once meet my mate.”

“You have an excess of materialism,” replied Clare. “Jean has an over-abundance of spirituality, neither are normal. All excess as well as all renunciation brings its own punish¬ ment, the loss of the good in the opposite, for if we look up¬ ward or downward always we lose heaven or earth. You, Cornie, worship physical beauty too much, you cannot see the beauty in the wonderful landscape. Jean acknowledges naught but the soul’s influence, he loses the human touch of the world. But we can none of us reject the battle—we cannot be spectators. Materialism against Spirituality, is the battle array! Passion versus Renunciation. Perhaps Moderation is the peace term—perhaps there can be no peace—each true to itself.”