Ages lapped at their feet like waves fit for sailing.

And surveying all this, looming through the fog, the lamplight, the shades of London, the two young men decided in favour of Greece.
"Probably," said Jacob, "we are the only people in the world who know what the Greeks meant." They drank coffee at a stall where the urns were burnished and little lamps burnt along the counter.
Taking Jacob for a military gentleman, the stall-keeper told him about his boy at Gibraltar, and Jacob cursed the British army and praised the Duke of Wellington.

So on again they went down the hill talking about the Greeks.
A strange thing--when you come to think of it--this love of Greek, flourishing in such obscurity, distorted, discouraged, yet leaping out, all of a sudden, especially on leaving crowded rooms, or after a surfeit of print, or when the moon floats among the waves of the hills, or in hollow, sallow, fruitless London days, like a specific; a clean blade; always a miracle.

Jacob knew no more Greek than served him to stumble through a play.

Of ancient history he knew nothing.