The Vagabond arises; he leaps out of the four-poster in the tower, his face merry in the light of the noon sun. As his feet touch the floor, and his knees buckle under him, his joyous expression contracts to a snarl. He wabbles to the fixtures, where he pours himself a goblet of cold water. It runs down his throat, and into his stomach, every inch of its course distinctly felt. A sensation of feeble exhilaration comes over him, and he puts on his raiment, slowly, with hands that will not quite close. The prospect of a meal seems strangely boring; slush fills the street, and the passers-by are dressed in slightly spotted reds. Their faces are surly, and the Vagabond is ruminating futility.

The clamor of the House dining hall, where he is eating with a friend whose conversation satisfies, pounds in his cars. As the decaying pork is placed on the table, the Vagabond leaves, looking straight before him, intently and desperate. He proceeds, with irregular stops, to a class. His legs are shot through with stabbing pains, and twist them as he may, he cannot soothe them. The lecture speaks more and more slowly, his words finally arriving in a heaving rhythm which leaves the Vagabond with faint shudders. The class closes, and he wanders forth, counting the brown boards in the hall. He enters the local cinema, where refractory shapes sway in a concatenation of primordial emotions which is the very essence of ennui. Lights go by; imbeciles speak. The streets are black, and suddenly he is in the four-poster once more. The light goes out.