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“Please, Flint,” this from Colum, “but you forget that the faces of those who live in the country are happier. That’s all that counts.”

“Not happier–less alert, that’s all–duller. For contentment, I’ll wager against any farmhand the old woman who sells apples at the corner. She polishes them on her apron with–with spit. There is an Italian who peddles ice from a handcart on our street, and he never sees me without a grin. The folk who run our grocery, a man and his wife, seem happy all the day. No! we misjudge the city and we have done so since the days of Wordsworth. If we prized the city rightly, we would be at more pains to make it better–to lessen its suffering. We ought to go into the crowded parts with an eye not only for the poverty, but also with sympathy for its beauty–its love of sunshine–the tenderness with which the elder children guard the younger–its love of music–its dancing–its naturalness. If we had this sympathy we could help–ourselves, first–and after that, maybe, the East Side.”

Flint arose and leaned against the chimney. He shook an accusing finger at the company. “You, Colum, ruin fifty weeks for the sake of two. You, Quill, hypnotize yourself into a frazzle by Saturday noon with unnecessary fret. You peck over your food too much. A little clear unmuddled thinking would straighten you out, even if you didn’t let the ants crawl over you on Sunday afternoon. Old Flannel Shirt is blinded by his spleen against society. As for Wurm, he doesn’t count. He’s only a harmless bit of mummy-wrapping.”

“And what are you, Flint?” asked Quill.

“Me? A rational man, I hope.”

“You–you are an egotist. That’s what you are.”

“Very well,” said Flint. “It’s just as you say.”

There was a red flash from the top of the Metropolitan Tower. Flint looked at his watch. “So?” he said, “I must be going.”

And now that our party is over and I am home at last, I put out the light and draw open the curtains. Tomorrow–it is to be a holiday–I had planned to climb in the Highlands, for I, too, am addicted to the country. But perhaps–perhaps I’ll change my plan and stay in town. I’ll take a hint from Flint. I’ll go down to Delancey Street and watch the chaffering and buying. What he said was true. He overstated his position, of course. Most propagandists do, being swept off in the current of their swift conviction. One should like both the city and the country; and the liking for one should heighten the liking for the other. Any particular receptiveness must grow to be a general receptiveness. Yet, in the main, certainly, Flint was right. I’ll try Delancey Street, I concluded, just this once.

Thousands of roofs lie below me, for I live in a tower as of Teufelsdroeckh. And many of them shield a bit of grief–darkened rooms where sick folk lie–rooms where hope is faint. And yet, as I believe, under these roofs there is more joy than grief–more contentment and happiness than despair, even in these grievous times of war. If Quill here frets himself into wakefulness and Colum chafes for the coming of the summer, also let us remember that in the murk and shadows of these rooms there are, at the least, thirty sailors from Central Park–one old fellow in particular who, although the hour is late, still putters with his boat in the litter of his dining-room. Glue-pots on the sideboard! Clamps among the china, and lumber on the hearth! And down on Grand Street, snug abed, dreaming of pleasant conquest, sleeps the dark-eyed Italian girl. On a chair beside her are her champagne boots, with stockings to match hung across the back.