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           Everyoneinpolitecirclesknewthat,inAmerica,"agentlemancouldn’tgointopolitics."But,sincehecouldhardlyputitinthatwaytoWinsett,heansweredevasively:"LookatthecareerofthehonestmaninAmericanpolitics!Theydon’twantus.""Who’s’they’?Whydon’tyouallgettogetherandbe’they’yourselves?"Archer’slaughlingeredonhislipsinaslightlycondescendingsmile.Itwasuselesstoprolongthediscussion:everybodyknewthemelancholyfateofthefewgentlemenwhohadriskedtheircleanlineninmunicipalorstatepoliticsinNewYork.Thedaywaspastwhenthatsortofthingwaspossible:thecountrywasinpossessionofthebossesandtheemigrant,anddecentpeoplehadtofallbackonsportorculture."Culture!Yes—ifwehadit!Buttherearejustafewlittlelocalpatches,dyingouthereandthereforlackof—well,hoeingandcross-fertilising:thelastremnantsoftheoldEuropeantraditionthatyourforebearsbroughtwiththem.Butyou’reinapitifullittleminority:you’vegotnocentre,nocompetition,noaudience.You’relikethepicturesonthewallsofadesertedhouse:’ThePortraitofaGentleman.’You’llneveramounttoanything,anyofyou,tillyourollupyoursleevesandgetrightdownintothemuck.That,oremigrate...God!IfIcouldemigrate..."Archermentallyshruggedhisshouldersandturnedtheconversationbacktobooks,whereWinsett,ifuncertain,wasalwaysinteresting.Emigrate!Asifagentlemancouldabandonhisowncountry!Onecouldnomoredothatthanonecouldrollupone’ssleevesandgodownintothemuck.