ailed 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," 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 he has written nothing, nor
will he ever again. I know people who lament his fate, who declare that
marriage was his ruin, and a crime against civilisation. The other day,
I called upon him--not having seen him for ages. I found a rather
uncomfortable little house, a pretty, dull little wife, and three
beautiful children in the most vigorous health. 'Alas!' said my friend
to me in private, 'I try to work, but I can do nothing. I need absolute
tranquillity, such as I had when I wr