than that man who is going up the steps
of old Beaumont's house."

"Who is old Beaumont?" I asked irritably.

"A perfectly good fellow. Lord Beaumont of Foxwood--don't you know his
name? He is a man of transparent sincerity, a nobleman who does more
work than a navvy, a socialist, an anarchist, I don't know what;
anyhow, he's a philosopher and philanthropist. I admit he has the slight
disadvantage of being, beyond all question, off his head. He has that
real disadvantage which has arisen out of the modern worship of progress
and novelty; and he thinks anything odd and new must be an advance. If
you went to him and proposed to eat your grandmother, he would agree
with you, so long as you put it on hygienic and public grounds, as a
cheap alternative to cremation. So long as you progress fast enough it
seems a matter of indifference to him whether you are progressing to the
stars or the devil. So his house is filled with an endless succession
of literary and political fashions; men who wear long hair because it is
romantic; men who wear short hair because it is medical; men who walk on
their feet only to exercise their hands; and men who walk on their hands
for fear of tiring their feet. But though the inhabitants of his salons
are generally fools, like himself, they are almost always, like himself,
good men. I am really surprised to see a criminal enter there."

"My good fellow," I said firmly, striking my foot on the pavement, "the
truth of this affair is very simple. To use your own eloquent language,
you have the 'slight disadvantage' of being off your head. You see a
total stranger in a public street; you choose to start certain theories
about his eyebrows. You then treat him as a burglar because he enters an
honest man's door. The thing is too monstrous. Admit that it is, Basil,
and come home with me. Though these people are still having tea, yet
with the distance we have to go, we shall be late for dinner."

Basil's eyes were shining in the twilight like lamps.

"I thought," he said, "that I had outlived vanity."

"What do you want now?" I cried.

"I want," he cried out, "what a girl wants when she wears her new frock;
I want what a boy wants when he goes in for a clanging match with a
monitor--I want to show somebody what a fine fellow I am. I am as right
about that man as I am about your having a hat on your head. You say
it cannot be tested. I say it can. I will take you to see my old friend
Beaumont. He