Jasper Thrale sat forward in his chair. “There’s no reason why you shouldn’t do what I’ve done—and more,” he said.
“Theoretically, I suppose not,” replied Gurney. “It’s just making the big effort to start with. You see I’ve got a very decent berth and good prospects, and it’s comfortable and all that. Only when some fellow like you comes along and tells one yarns of the world outside, I get sort of hankerings after the sea and adventure, and seeing the big things. It’s only now and then—ordinary times I’m contented enough.” He stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth and stared into the fire.
“The only things that really count are feeling clean and strong and able,” said Thrale. “You never really have that feeling if you live in the big cities.”
“I’ve felt like that sometimes after a long bicycle ride,” interpolated Gurney.
“But then the feeling is wasted, you see,” said Thrale. “When you feel like that and there is something tremendous to spend it upon, you get the great emotion as well.”
“Like the glimmer of St Agnes’ light, after you’d been eight weeks out of sight of land?” reflected Gurney, going back to one of Thrale’s reminiscences.
“To feel that you are a part of life, not this dead, stale life of the city, but the life of the whole universe,” said Thrale.
“I know,” replied Gurney. “To-night I’ve half a mind to chuck my job and go out looking for mystery.”
“But you won’t do it,” said Thrale.
Gurney sighed and began to analyse the instinct within himself, to find precisely why he wanted to do it.