So that was the real heart of tonight’s matter.

“I will take the same neutral stance as the News,” I assured him.

He took a final sip from his stein. Too casually, he said, “I have learned that a book of yours is about to be published.”

I shifted in my chair. “That is true.”

“The Teachings of Nietzsche? Huebsch is bringing it out, I take it.”

“Actually, sir, it’s entitled What Nietzsche Taught. . and much in your tradition, I seek only to guide the general reader to a better understanding of an important philosopher’s much-maligned, much-misunderstood writings.”

He dabbed a napkin at himself, cleansing his mouth and mustache of beer foam. “There are those who say Nietzsche is to blame, in some degree, for this war-that he was the Prophet of the Iron Fist and the Teutonic Superman. . the enemy of common, decent people.”

“Which is why my book is so important, Mr. McClure. Nietzsche wasn’t interested in the acquisition of land for the state, or glory for the Kaiser. . but in each man’s ability to find within himself strength, confidence, exuberance and affirmation in life. . a life intensified to its highest degree, charged with beauty, power, enthusiasm. . ”

I didn’t realize it, but I was sitting forward now, my voice raised somewhat, and what seemed at first an awkward silence followed. . until McClure’s grim countenance broke into an unexpected grin.

“I like the sound of that,” he admitted. “And I like your spirit. . and your mastery of the English language.” He gathered his coat and hat, stood and offered me his hand, which I shook. He shook hands with his publisher, and then pressed through the bustle of waiters and patrons, on his way to see D.W. Griffith’s eighteen thousand actors and three thousand horses.

We didn’t even have time to rise, and Rumely smiled on one side of his rumpled face, rumpling it further, saying, “He’s a rather brusque fellow, our McClure.”