e Family
Egotist--whose irritation had been increasing like the alleged
circulation of a newspaper--showed every sign of hurling the boomerang
of his opinion into the fray. This would have meant the death of all
liveliness for some hours to come, and a general sigh had begun to
heave, when once more our brave Bluestocking stemmed the tide.

'You make rather a cult of the Bible,' she quacked scornfully, directing
her remarks principally at the Good Stockbroker; 'but you don't seem
very conversant with the Old Testament. You will find there ample proof
that monogamic marriage is no more divine than--than polygamy or free
love. Nor has it any celestial origin, since it varies with race and
climate. It is simply an indispensable social safeguard.'

'I'll have a shilling each way on it,' murmured the Ass (an incorrigible
youth, quite the Winston Churchill of our family cabinet), using his
customary formula. Unheeding, the Bluestocking chirruped on severely:
'You must know, if you have ever studied sociology, that marriage is
essentially a _social contract_, primarily based on selfishness. At
present it still retains its semi-barbarous form, and those who preach
without reason of its alleged sacredness would be better employed in
suggesting how the savage code now in vogue can be modified to meet the
necessities of modern civilisation.'

She paused for breath. The Good Stockbroker was pale, but faced her
manfully. 'Well done, Bluestocking!' said the Weary Roue. 'Wonderful
woman, our Quacker,' said the Ass, 'I'll have a shilling each way on
her.' The Wicked Stockbroker took a second helping of salad, and ate on
unheeding, whilst the Gentle Lady at the head of the table anxiously
watched the Family Egotist, who looked apoplectic and was toying
truculently with a wineglass with evident danger of shortening its
career of usefulness.

'I was taught,' said the Good Stockbroker slowly, 'to regard marriage as
a sacred institution--a holy mystery.'

'Then you were taught rot,' snapped the Bluestocking, thus living up to
the worst traditions of the polite dinner-table, and quivering with
intellectual fury.

'Recrimination--' began the Good Stockbroker.

('Good word that, I'll have a shilling each way on it,' murmured the
Ass.)

'--is not argument,' continued the Good Stockbroker.

'It may not be, but what you said was _rot_,' replied the Bluestocking,
'"a holy mystery, instituted in the time of man's innocency"--I
recognise