“That’s absurd, you know,” objected Francis Charles.  “No man is really irreligious.  Whether we make broad the phylactery or merely our minds, we are all alike at heart.  The first waking thought is invariably, What of the day?  It is a prayer—­unconscious, unspoken, and sincere.  We are all sun worshipers; and when we meet we invoke the sky—­a good day to you; a good night to you.  It is a highly significant fact that all conversation begins with the weather.  The weather is the most important fact in any one day, and, therefore, the most important fact in the sum of our days.  We recognize this truth in our greetings; we propitiate the dim and nameless gods of storm and sky; we reverence their might, their paths above our knowing.  Nor is this all.  A fine day; a bad day—­with the careless phrases we assent to such tremendous and inevitable implications:  the helplessness of humanity, the brotherhood of man, equality, democracy.  For what king or kaiser, against the implacable wind—­”

Ferdie rose and pawed at his ears with both hands.

“For the love of the merciful angels!  Can the drivel and cut the drool!”

“Those are very good words, Sedgwick,” said Mr. Thompson approvingly.  “The word I had on my tongue was—­balderdash.  But your thought was happier.  Balderdash is a vague and shapeless term.  It conjures up no definite vision.  But drivel and drool—­very excellent words.”

Mr. Thompson took a cigar and seated himself, expectant and happy.

“Boland, what did you come here for, anyhow?” demanded Ferdie explosively.  “Do you play tennis?  Do you squire the girls?  Do you take a hand at bridge?  Do you fish?  Row?  Swim?  Motor?  Golf?  Booze?  Not you!  Might as well have stayed in New York.  Two weeks now you have perched oh a porch—­perched and sat, and nothing more.  Dawdle and dream and foozle over your musty old books.  Yah!  Highbrow!”

“Little do you wot; but I do more—­ah, far more!—­than perching on this porch.”

“What do you do?  Mope and mowl?  If so, mowl for us.  I never saw anybody mowl.  Or does one hear people when they mowl?”

“Naturally it wouldn’t occur to you—­but I think.  About things.  Mesopotamia.  The spring-time of the world.  Ur of the Chaldees.  Melchisedec.  Arabia Felix.  The Simple Life; and Why Men Leave Home.”

“No go, Boland, old socks!” said Thompson.  “Our young friend is right, you know.  You are not practical.  You are booky.  You are a dreamer.  Get into the game.  Get busy!  Get into business.  Get a wad.  Get!  Found an estate.  Be somebody!”

“As for me, I go for a stroll.  You give little Frankie a pain in his feelings!  For a crooked tuppence I’d get somebody to wire me to come to New York at once.—­Uttering these intrepid words the brave youth rose gracefully and, without a glance at his detractors, sauntered nonchalantly to the gate.—­Unless, of course, you meant it for my good?” He bent his brows inquiringly.