“Then that’s it. Mrs. Failing, you see, she wouldn’t call it that, because three W’s, you see, in a row, she said, are vulgar, and sound like Tolstoy, if you’ve heard of him.” Ansell confessed to an acquaintance, and then said, “Do you think ‘What We Want’ vulgar?” He was not at all interested, but he desired to escape from the atmosphere of pugilistic courtesy, more painful to him than blows themselves. “It _is_ the same book,” said the other—“same title, same binding.” He weighed it like a brick in his muddy hands. “Open it to see if the inside corresponds,” said Ansell, swallowing a laugh and a little more blood with it. With a liberal allowance of thumb-marks, he turned the pages over and read, “‘—the rural silence that is not a poet’s luxury but a practical need for all men.’ Yes, it _is_ the same book.” Smiling pleasantly over the discovery, he handed it back to the owner. “And is it true?” “I beg your pardon?” “Is it true that rural silence is a practical need?” “Don’t ask me!” “Have you ever tried it?” “What?” “Rural silence.” “A field with no noise in it, I suppose you mean. I don’t understand.” Ansell smiled, but a slight fire in the man’s eye checked him. After all, this was a person who could knock one down. Moreover, there was no reason why he should be teased. He had it in him to retort “No. Why?” He was not stupid in essentials. He was irritable—in Ansell’s eyes a frequent sign of grace. Sitting down on the upturned seat, he remarked, “I like the book in many ways. I don’t think ‘What We Want’ would have been a vulgar title. But I don’t intend to spoil myself on the chance of mending the world, which is what the creed amounts to. Nor am I keen on rural silences.” “Curse!” he said thoughtfully, sucking at an empty pipe. “Tobacco?” “Please.” “Rickie’s is invariably filthy.” “Who says I know Rickie?” “Well, you know his aunt. It’s a possible link. Be gentle with Rickie. Don’t knock him down if he doesn’t think it’s a nice morning.” The other was silent. “Do you know him well?” “Kind of.” He was not inclined to talk. The wish to smoke was very violent in him, and Ansell noticed how he gazed at the wreaths that ascended from bowl and stem, and how, when the stem was in his mouth, he bit it. He gave the idea of an animal with just enough soul to contemplate its own bliss. United with refinement, such a type was common in Greece. It is not common today, and Ansell was surprised to find it in a friend of Rickie’s. Rickie, if he could even “kind of know” such a creature, must be stirring in his grave. “Do you know his wife too?” “Oh yes. In a way I know Agnes. But thank you for this tobacco. Last night I nearly died. I have no money.” “Take the whole pouch—do.” After a moment’s hesitation he did. “Fight the good” had scarcely ended, so quickly had their intimacy grown. “I suppose you’re a friend of Rickie’s?”