“Now let us talk,” said Jacob, as he walked down Haverstock Hill between four and five o’clock in the morning of November the sixth arm-in-arm with Timmy Durrant, “about something sensible.”

The Greeks—­yes, that was what they talked about—­how when all’s said and done, when one’s rinsed one’s mouth with every literature in the world, including Chinese and Russian (but these Slavs aren’t civilized), it’s the flavour of Greek that remains.  Durrant quoted Aeschylus—­Jacob Sophocles.  It is true that no Greek could have understood or professor refrained from pointing out—­Never mind; what is Greek for if not to be shouted on Haverstock Hill in the dawn?  Moreover, Durrant never listened to Sophocles, nor Jacob to Aeschylus.  They were boastful, triumphant; it seemed to both that they had read every book in the world; known every sin, passion, and joy.  Civilizations stood round them like flowers ready for picking.  Ages lapped at their feet like waves fit for sailing.  And surveying all this, looming through the fog, the lamplight, the shades of London, the two young men decided in favour of Greece.

“Probably,” said Jacob, “we are the only people in the world who know what the Greeks meant.”

They drank coffee at a stall where the urns were burnished and little lamps burnt along the counter.

Taking Jacob for a military gentleman, the stall-keeper told him about his boy at Gibraltar, and Jacob cursed the British army and praised the Duke of Wellington.  So on again they went down the hill talking about the Greeks.

A strange thing—­when you come to think of it—­this love of Greek, flourishing in such obscurity, distorted, discouraged, yet leaping out, all of a sudden, especially on leaving crowded rooms, or after a surfeit of print, or when the moon floats among the waves of the hills, or in hollow, sallow, fruitless London days, like a specific; a clean blade; always a miracle.  Jacob knew no more Greek than served him to stumble through a play.  Of ancient history he knew nothing.  However, as he tramped into London it seemed to him that they were making the flagstones ring on the road to the Acropolis, and that if Socrates saw them coming he would bestir himself and say “my fine fellows,” for the whole sentiment of Athens was entirely after his heart; free, venturesome, high-spirited. ...  She had called him Jacob without asking his leave.  She had sat upon his knee.  Thus did all good women in the days of the Greeks.

At this moment there shook out into the air a wavering, quavering, doleful lamentation which seemed to lack strength to unfold itself, and yet flagged on; at the sound of which doors in back streets burst sullenly open; workmen stumped forth.

Florinda was sick.

Mrs. Durrant, sleepless as usual, scored a mark by the side of certain lines in the Inferno.

Clara slept buried in her pillows; on her dressing-table dishevelled roses and a pair of long white gloves.