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Wurm rapped his pipe bowl on the arm of his chair. “You must be like Antaeus,” he replied.

“Like what?” asked Flint.

“Antaeus–the fellow who wrestled with Hercules. Each time that Antaeus was thrown against the earth his strength was doubled. He was finally in the way of overcoming Hercules, when Hercules by seizing him around the middle lifted him off the ground. By this strategy he deprived him of all contact with the earth, and presently Antaeus weakened and was vanquished.”

“That’s me,” said Quill, the journalist. “If I can’t get back to my shack on Sunday, I feel that Hercules has me, too, around the middle.”

“Perhaps I can find the story,” said Wurm, his eye running toward the bookshelves.

“Don’t bother,” said Flint.

There was now another speaker–Flannel Shirt, as we called him–who had once been sated with formal dinners and society, and is now inclined to cry them down. He leans a bit toward socialism and free verse. He was about to praise the country for its freedom from sordidness and artificiality, when Flint, who had heard him before, interrupted.

“Rubbish!” he cried out. “All of you, but in different ways, are slaves to an old tradition kept up by Wordsworth, who would himself, doubtless, have moved to London except for the steepness of the rents. You all maintain that you like the country, yet on one excuse or another you live in the city and growl about it. There isn’t a commuter among you. Honest folk, these commuters, with marrow in their bones–a steak in a paper bag–the sleet in their faces on the ferryboat. I am the only one who admits that he lives in the city because he prefers it. The country is good enough to read about–I like it in books–but I choose to sit meantime with my feet on a city fender.”

Here Wurm broke in again. “I see, Flint,” he said, “that you have been reading Leslie Stephen.”

Flint denied it.

“Well, anyway, you have quoted him. Let me read you a bit of his essay on ‘Country Books.'”

Flint made a grimace. “Wurm always has a favorite passage.”

Wurm went to a shelf and took down a volume. He blew off the dust and smoothed its sides. “Listen to this!” he said. “Picked up the volume at Schulte’s, on the twenty-five cent table. ‘A love of the country is taken,'” he read, “‘I know not why, to indicate the presence of all the cardinal virtues…. We assert a taste for sweet and innocent pleasures and an indifference to the feverish excitements of artificial society. I, too, like the country,…’ (you’ll like this, Flint) ‘but I confess–to be duly modest–that I love it best in books. In real life I have remarked that it is frequently damp and rheumatic, and most hated by those who know it best…. Though a cockney in grain, I love to lean upon the farmyard gate; to hear Mrs. Poyser give a bit of her mind to the squire; to be lulled into a placid doze by the humming of Dorlecote Mill; to sit down in Dandie Dinmont’s parlour … or to drop into the kitchen of a good old country inn, and to smoke a pipe with Tom Jones or listen to the simple-minded philosophy of Parson Adams.'”

“You hit on a good one then,” said Flint. “And now as I was saying–“

Wurm interposed. “Just a moment, Flint! You think that that quotation supports your side of the discussion. Not at all. It shows merely that sometimes we get greater reality from books than we get from life. Leslie Stephen liked the real country, also. In his holidays he climbed the Swiss mountains–wrote a book about them–it’s on that top shelf. Don’t you remember how he loved to roll stones off a cliff? And as a pedestrian he was almost as famous as George Borrow–walked the shirt off his back before his college trustees and all that sort of thing. But he got an even sharper reality from books. He liked the city, too, but in many a mood, there’s no doubt about it, he preferred to walk to Charing Cross with Doctor Johnson in a book, rather than to jostle on the actual pavement outside his door.”