_feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.

It's lovely to see people so happy.

_possessed of that indescribable charm called grace.

They were learning that New York had another life, too _ subterranean, like almost everything that was human in the city _ a life of writers meeting in restaurants at lunchtime or in coffee houses after business hours to talk of work just started or magazines unpublished, and even to lay modest plans for the future. Modestly they were beginning to write poems worth the trouble of reading to their friends over coffee cups. Modestly they were rebelling once more.

Dear me! how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!

Well, I am happy, and I won't fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wants_