"But, Fergus," he said, "I don't want to fight. I like you."
"There's them that has to fight," responded Fergus.
"I never fought anybody in my life," said Nort, as though partly to himself.
"That may be the trouble wi' ye."
Fergus continued, like some implacable fate, getting ready. He was now hitching up his belt.
Every artistic nature sooner or later meets some such irretrievable human experience. It asks only to see life, to look on, to enjoy. But one day this artistic nature makes the astonishing discovery that nature plays no favourites, that life is, after all, horribly concrete, democratic, little given to polite discrimination, and it gets itself suddenly taken seriously, literally, and dragged by the heels into the grime and common coarseness of things.
Nort was still inclined to argue, for it did not seem real to him.
"It won't prove anything, Fergus, fighting never does."
"'Fraid, are ye?"
"Yes," said Nort, "horribly."