"So you're shaking the dust off your feet?" Jowett's friend said. "How many years has it been?" "Twenty-odd. Twenty-two or three. Twenty-three years next March, to be precise. Nice way for a man to spend twenty-three years of his life, isn't it?" "A very nice way, I should say. Beautiful things about you all the time--lots of pleasant young people and so on. One gets older, of course, but you have the fun of starting 'em in the world and seeing how far they go." With an "Eh?" Jowett looked sideways at his companion; then he looked before him again. "The world? That place hasn't got anything to do with the world," he said. "No? Well, one of your old students seemed to be making quite a stir in it not so long ago--that girl who painted 'Barrage'--what's her name--Miss Towers, wasn't it?" "Yes. Amory Towers. A small red-haired girl. I fancy I pointed her out to you once. She was married a year or so ago; married another of our students. Pratt, his name was." "Then she's in the world now, at any rate." "Think so? I very much doubt it. Of course she is, in one sense; I can't deny that; but this is what I mean: There's too much paper in their lives. They read too much. Draw too much. Especially reading. Lord, the books they get hold of! Weeks and months together I've heard 'em: Myers says this, and Galton says that, and Tolstoi says the other; and they make up a sort of world out of all that, and think it's the real one, or is soon going to be, and they live in it, and go on living in it, and never get out of it. I hope I've heard the last of Myers and Galton and Tolstoi." "But--my good chap!" Jowett glared. "Well?" "Well!"