y cultivated man),
"if you admit that movement, labour, progress, and all that have been
properly given to building up these illusions, that--er--in fact,
they're what you might call--er--the outcome of the world's crescendo,"
he rushed his voice over this phrase as if ashamed of it--"why do you
want to destroy them?"

Shelton thought a moment, then, squeezing his body with his folded arms,
replied:

"The past has made us what we are, of course, and cannot be destroyed;
but how about the future? It 's surely time to let in air. Cathedrals
are very fine, and everybody likes the smell of incense; but when they
've been for centuries without ventilation you know what the atmosphere
gets like."

The soldier smiled.

"By your own admission," he said, "you'll only be creating a fresh set
of illusions."

"Yes," answered Shelton, "but at all events they'll be the honest
necessities of the present."

The pupils of the soldier's eyes contracted; he evidently felt the
conversation slipping into generalities; he answered:

"I can't see how thinking small beer of ourselves is going to do us any
good!"

An "At Home!"

Shelton felt in danger of being thought unpractical in giving vent to
the remark:

"One must trust one's reason; I never can persuade myself that I believe
in what I don't."

A minute later, with a cordial handshake, the soldier left, and Shelton
watched his courteous figure shepherding his wife away.

"Dick, may I introduce you to Mr. Wilfrid Curly?" said his cousin's
voice behind, and he found his hand being diffidently shaken by a
fresh-cheeked youth with a dome-like forehead, who was saying nervously:

"How do you do? Yes, I am very well, thank you!"

He now remembered that when he had first come in he had watched this
youth, who had been standing in a corner indulging himself in private
smiles. He had an uncommon look, as though he were in love with life--as
though he regarded it as a creature to whom one could put questions
to the very end--interesting, humorous, earnest questions. He looked
diffident, and amiable, and independent, and he, too, was evidently
English.

"Are you good at argument?" said Shelton, at a loss for a remark.

The youth smiled, blushed, and, putting back his hair, replied:

"Yes--no--I don't know; I think my brain does n't work fast enough
for argument. You know how many motions of the brain-cells go to each
remark. It 's awfully interesting"; and, bending from the w