more?" inquired Estridge, still laughing.

Jim gave him a singular look: "Yes.... Do you like Ilse Westgard?"

Estridge said coolly: "I am accepting her as she is. I like her that
much."

"Oh. Is that very much?" sneered the other.

"Enough to marry her if she'd have me," replied Estridge pleasantly.

"And she won't do that, I suppose?"

"Not so far."

Jim eyed him sullenly: "Well, I don't accept Palla as she is--or
thinks she is."

"She's sincere."

"I understand that. But no girl can get away with such notions. Where
is it all going to land her? What will she be?"

Estridge quoted: "'It hath not yet appeared what we shall be.'"

Shotwell rose impatiently, and picked up his overcoat: "All I know is
that when two healthy people care for each other it's their
business--their _business_, I repeat--to get together legally and do
the decent thing by the human race."

"Breed?"

"Certainly! Breed legally the finest, healthiest, best of specimens;--and
as many as they can feed and clothe! For if they don't--if we don't--I
mean our own sort--the land will be crawling with the robust get of
all these millions of foreigners, who already have nearly submerged us in
America; and whose spawn will, one day, smother us to death.

"Hang it all, aren't they breeding like vermin now? All yellow dogs
do--all the unfit produce big litters. That's the only thing they ever
do--accumulate progeny.

"And what are we doing?--our sort, I mean? I'll tell you! Our sisters
are having such a good time that they won't marry, if they can avoid
it, until they're too mature to get the best results in children. Our
wives, if they condescend to have any offspring at all, limit the
output to one. Because more than one _might_ damage their beauty.
Hell! If the educated classes are going to practise race suicide and
the Bolsheviki are going to breed like lice, you can figure out the
answer for yourself."

They walked to the foggy street together. Shotwell said bitterly:

"I do care for Palla. I like Ilse. All the women one encounters at
Palla's parties are gay, accomplished, clever, piquant. The men also
are more or less amusing. The conversation is never dull. Everybody
seems to be well bred, sincere, friendly and agreeable. But there's
something lacking. One feels it even before one is enlightened
concerning the ultra-modernism of these admittedly interesting people.
And I'll tell you what it is. Actually, deep in their souls, they
d