“But,” continued Margaret for him, “you think as things are going that polyandry will have to come in fashion--a woman will need more than one husband to support her?” “And I was born too soon,” murmured Carmen. “Yes, dear, you'll have to be born again. But, Mr. Morgan, you don't seem to understand what civilization is.” “I'm beginning to. I've been thinking--this is entirely impersonal--that it costs more to keep one fine lady going than it does a college. Just reckon it up.” (Margaret was watching him with sparkling eyes.) “The palace in town is for her, the house in the mountains, the house by the sea, are for her, the army of servants is for her, the horses and carriages for all weathers are for her, the opera box is for her, and then the wardrobe--why, half Paris lives on what women wear. I say nothing of what would become of the medical profession but for her.” “Have you done?” asked Margaret. “No, but I'm taking breath.” “Well, why shouldn't we support the working-people of Paris and elsewhere? Do you want us to make our own clothes and starve the sewing-women? Suppose there weren't any balls and fine dresses and what you call luxury. What would the poor do without the rich? Isn't it the highest charity to give them work? Even with it they are ungrateful enough.” “That is too deep for me,” said Morgan, evasively. “I suppose they ought to be contented to see us enjoying ourselves. It's all in the way of civilization, I dare say.” “It's just as I thought,” said Margaret, more lightly. “You haven't an inkling of what civilization is. See that flower before you. It is the most exquisite thing in this room. See the refinement of its color and form. That was cultivated. The plant came from South Africa. I don't know what expense the gardener has been to about it, what material and care have been necessary to bring it to perfection. You may take it to Mrs. Morgan as an object-lesson. It is a thing of beauty. You cannot put any of your mercantile value on it. Well, that is woman, the consummate flower of civilization. That is what civilization is for.” “I'm sorry for you, old fellow,” said Henderson. “I'm sorry for myself,” Carmen said, demurely. “I admit all that,” Morgan replied. “Take Mr. Henderson as a gardener, then.” “Suppose you take somebody else, and let my husband eat his dinner.” “Oh, I don't mind preaching; I've got used to being made to point a moral.” “But he will go on next about the luxury of the age, and the extravagance of women, and goodness knows what,” said Margaret. “No, I'm talking about men,” Morgan continued. “Consider Henderson--it's entirely impersonal--as a gardener. What does he get out of his occupation? He can look at the flower. Perhaps that is enough. He gets a good dinner when he has time for it, an hour at his club now and then, occasionally an evening or half a day off at home, a decent wardrobe--” “Fifty-two suits,” interposed Margaret. “His own brougham--”