"That’s entirely unfair," I protested. "You are quarreling with me over a definition. My book deals with the phenomena of the criminal courts. I have no business with what you or the newspapers call crime. If I wanted my work to be scientific I had to get a sharp definition. And I said that crime consists of acts forbidden by the legislature. I pointed out that it is an arbitrary conception, which is always changing. Some things—like kissing your wife on the Sabbath day—are no longer criminal and some things—like these Wall Street transactions—probably will be crimes tomorrow. Your third count is not against me but against the ’Scientific Method.’" "Tommyrot!" she retorted. "You try to evade a big human truth by a scientific pretext. You know that ninety per cent of the criminal law, just as ninety-nine per cent of the civil law, is an effort to make people recognize property relations which are basically unjust. If our economic relations were right it would eliminate ninety per cent of crime. And justice—socialism—would do more, it would result in healthier, nobler personalities and wipe out the other ten per cent. There’s the crux of the problem of crime and you dodge it. "You have a chapter on prostitution. It’s splendid, the best I’ve seen—where you describe present conditions. But the conclusions are—well—sickening. Do you really think that taking the poor women’s finger prints will help? Of course you don’t! It’s all wrapped up in the great injustice which underlies all life. You come right up to the point—you say that most prostitution comes because the daughters of the poor have no other alternative but the sweatshop—and then you shut your mouth like a fool or a coward. "Your book might have been wonderful—a big contribution. Oh, why didn’t you? It’s only half-hearted—insincere!" I cannot recall my defense. I tried to make her see how we came at the problem from the opposite poles, how her point of departure was an ideal social organization, while I started from the world as it is, how she spoke in terms of the absolute, and I thought only of relative values, how she saw an abiding truth back of life and I believed in an all-pervading change. We fought it out bitterly—with ungloved words—all the afternoon. Neither convinced the other, but I think I persuaded her of my sincerity, almost persuaded her that "narrow" was not the best word to express my outlook—that "different" was juster. The sun was down in the tree-tops when at last she brought the argument to a close. "We’ll never agree. Our points of view are miles apart." "But that," I said, "need make no difference, so long as we are honest to each other—and to ourselves." "I’m not sure about that," she said. "I must think it out." She stretched out on the grass again and began to poke a straw into an ant-hole. I sat back and smoked and blessed the gods who had moulded so perfect a back. Then she looked at her watch and jumped up.