The artist who doesn't fit--the Rousseau, the Tolstoi, the Samuel Butler, the Amory Blaine--" "Who's he ?" demanded the little man suspiciously.
"Well," said Amory, "he's a--he's an intellectual personage not very well known at present." The little man laughed his conscientious laugh, and stopped rather suddenly as Amory's burning eyes turned on him.
"What are you laughing at ?" "These _intellectual_ people--" "Do you know what it means ?" The little man's eyes twitched nervously.
"Why, it _usually_ means--" "It _always_ means brainy and well-educated," interrupted Amory.

"It means having an active knowledge of the race's experience." Amory decided to be very rude.

He turned to the big man.

"The young man," he indicated the secretary with his thumb, and said young man as one says bell-boy, with no implication of youth, "has the usual muddled connotation of all popular words." "You object to the fact that capital controls printing ?" said the big man, fixing him with his goggles.
"Yes--and I object to doing their mental work for them.

It seemed to me that the root of all the business I saw around me consisted in overworking and underpaying a bunch of dubs who submitted to it." "Here now," said the big man, "you'll have to admit that the laboring man is certainly highly paid--five and six hour days--it's ridiculous.
You can't buy an honest day's work from a man in the trades-unions." "You've brought it on yourselves," insisted Amory.