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