only going so far as to concede, and gladly, that we were drenched
with sound. It was not however the mere speakers who were killing
us--it was the mere stammerers. Fine talk was as rare as it was
refreshing--the gift of the gods themselves, the one starry spangle
on the ragged cloak of humanity. How many men were there who rose
to this privilege, of how many masters of conversation could he
boast the acquaintance? Dying of talk?--why we were dying of the
lack of it! Bad writing wasn't talk, as many people seemed to
think, and even good wasn't always to be compared to it. From the
best talk indeed the best writing had something to learn. I
fancifully added that we too should peradventure be gilded by the
legend, should be pointed at for having listened, for having
actually heard. Gravener, who had glanced at his watch and
discovered it was midnight, found to all this a retort beautifully
characteristic of him.

"There's one little fact to be borne in mind in the presence
equally of the best talk and of the worst." He looked, in saying
this, as if he meant great things, and I was sure he could only
mean once more that neither of them mattered if a man wasn't a real
gentleman. Perhaps it was what he did mean; he deprived me however
of the exultation of being right by putting the truth in a slightly
different way. "The only thing that really counts for one's
estimate of a person is his conduct." He had his watch still in
his palm, and I reproached him with unfair play in having
ascertained beforehand that it was now the hour at which I always
gave in. My pleasantry so far failed to mollify him that he
promptly added that to the rule he had just enunciated there was
absolutely no exception.