got over it.  I shall dream to-night of myriads of bullocks massacred for beef-tea, and of an endless procession of pills—­reaching their destination.  I ask myself, in my foolish theoretic way, what earthly right we have to lay claim to civilisation.  How much better it would be always to speak of ourselves as barbarians.  We should then, perhaps, make some endeavour to improve.  The barbarian who imagines himself on the pinnacle of refinement is in a parlous state—­far more likely to retrograde than to advance.”

“There should be a league of landowners,” said Miss Tomalin, “pledged to forbid any such horror on their own property.”

“I don’t know that I have much faith in leagues,” returned Sir William.  “I am a lost individualist.  Let everyone try to civilise himself; depend upon it, it’s the best work he can do for the world at large.”

“And yet,” put in Lord Dymchurch, “the world can’t do without apostles.  Do you think mere example has ever availed much?”

“Perhaps not.  I would say that I don’t care.  Do you really believe that the world ever will be much more civilised than it is?  In successive epochs, there are more or fewer persons of liberal mind—­that’s all; the proportion rises and falls.  Why should we trouble about it?  Let those of us who really dislike the ox and pill placards, keep as much out of sight of them as possible, that’s all.  It doesn’t do to think over much about the problems of life.  Nowadays almost everybody seems to feel it a duty to explain the universe, and with strange results.  For instance, I read an article last night, a most profound article, altogether too much for my poor head, on the question of right and wrong.  Really, I had supposed that I knew the difference between right and wrong; in my blundering way, I had always tried to act on the knowledge.  But this writer proves to me that I shall have to begin all over again.  ‘Morality,’ he says, ‘depends upon cerebral oxidation.’  That’s a terrible dictum for a simpleminded man.  If I am not cerebrally oxidised, or oxidally cerebrised, in the right degree, it’s all over with my hopes of leading a moral life.  I’m quite sure that a large number of people are worrying over that article, and asking how they can oxidise if not their own cerebellum, at all events that of their offspring.”

“Man and nature,” said Lord Dymchurch presently, “have such different views about the good of the world.”

“That’s,” exclaimed the baronet, “is a very striking remark.  Let me give you an illustration of its truth.  Years ago I had an intimate friend, a wonderfully clever man, who wrote and published a delightful little book.  Few such books have ever been written; it was a marvel of delicate thought and of exquisite style.  The half-dozen readers who could appreciate it cried aloud that this man had a great future, that his genius was a jewel which the world would for ever prize—­and so on.  Well, my friend married, and since then