"Oh. All in good time, my friend. One day we shall all pick up and leave."
"And that day I'll await impatiently," Fownes replied with marvelous tact, "because it will be lonely out there for the two of us. My future wife and I have to leave now."
"Nonsense. Ridiculous! You have to be prepared for the Open Country. You can't just up and leave, it would be suicide, Fownes. And dialectically very poor."
"Then you have discussed preparations, the practical necessities of life in the Open Country. Food, clothing, a weapon perhaps? What else? Have I left anything out?"
The leader sighed. "The gentleman wants to know if he's left anything out," he said to the group.
Fownes looked around at them, at some dozen pained expressions.
"Tell the man what he's forgotten," the leader said, walking to the far window and turning his back quite pointedly on them.
Everyone spoke at the same moment. "A sound foreign policy," they all said, it being almost too obvious for words.
On his way out the librarian shouted at him: "A Tale of a Tub, thirty-five years overdue!" She was calculating the fine as he closed the door.