The other pondered; he always spoke deliberately, choosing his words with precision. “Some people might think so,” he said. “For myself, I have never known any such life.” “But what’s that got to do with it?” cried Thyrsis. “It has much to do with it--for me. One has to judge by what one knows--” “But can’t one be taught?” The professor meditated again. “I have lived forty-five years,” he said, “and you have lived less than half that. I imagine that I have read more, studied more, thought more than you. Yet you ask me to submit myself to your teaching!” “No, no!” cried Thyrsis, eagerly. “It is not as if it were a matter of learning--of scholarship--of knowledge of the world. There is an intensity of experience that is not dependent upon time; in the things of the imagination--in matters of inspiration--surely one does not have to be old or learned.” “That might be true,” admitted the other, hesitatingly. “You read the poetry of Keats or Shelley, for instance. They were as young as I am when they wrote it, and yet you do not refuse to acknowledge its worth. Is it just because they are dead, and their poems are classics?” So these two wrestled it out. Thyrsis could bring the other to the point of acknowledging that there might be genius in his work, but he could not bring him to the point of _doing_ anything about it. The poet went away, seeing the situation quite clearly. Prof. Osborne was an instructor; it was his business to know; and if he should abdicate before one of his pupils, then what would become of authority? He had certain models, which he set before his class; these models constituted literature. If anyone might disregard them and proceed to create new models according to his own lawless impulse--then what anarchy would reign in a classroom! Under such circumstances, it was remarkable that the professor had even been willing to admit of doubts; as Thyrsis walked home he clenched his hands and whispered to himself, “I’ll get that man some day!” Section 2. The road now lay clear before Thyrsis, and accordingly he set grimly to work. He had his document printed upon a long slip of paper, and got several packages for Corydon to address. And one evening they took them out and dropped them into the mailbox. “And now we’ll see!” he said. They soon saw. When he came in for lunch the next day, Corydon came to the door, in great excitement. “S-sh!” she whispered. “There’s a reporter here!” “A reporter!” he echoed. “Yes--a woman.” “What does she want?” “She wants an interview about the book.” “Where is she from?” “She’s from the ‘Morning Howl’. She’s read the circular.” “But I never sent it there!” “I know; but she says a friend gave it to her. She knows all about it.”