"I mean," said the Pessimist, "that the prospects of the Human Expedition can't be very bright so long as Society has to put up with anybody and everybody who happens to be born. I suppose there _is_ a Human Expedition," he went on. "At least, _you_ have written as though there were. But who selects the crew? Nobody. They come aboard as they happen to be born, and the unfortunate Commander has to put up with them as they come--broken men, jail-deliveries, invalids, sea-sick land-lubbers, and Heaven knows what. Who in his senses would put to sea with such a crowd? Humanity is always in a state like that of your Expedition when it doubled Cape Horn--incompetent, mutinous, or sick unto death. And what else can you expect in view of the conditions under which we all arrive on the planet?" The Host now glanced uneasily at the Professor of Philosophy, whose treatise on _The World Purpose_ was famous throughout three continents. The Professor was visibly arming himself for the fray: he had just filled his claret-glass with port. "Remember," said the Host, "that we must join the ladies in twenty minutes at the utmost." "I'm not going to argue," replied the Philosopher, after a resolute sip at his port; "I'm going to tell you a story." "Tell it in the drawing-room," said the Son of the House, who had taken his pretty cousin down to dinner, and was a little exhilarated by that and by the excellence of his father's wine; "that is to say,"--and he spoke eagerly, as if a bright idea had struck him,--"that is to say, of course, if it will bear telling in the presence of ladies." There was a roar of laughter, and the Son of the House blushed to the roots of his hair. "I am inclined to think," said the Professor, "that my story, so far from being unsuitable for the ladies, will be intelligible to no one else." "We'll join the ladies at once," said the Host, "and hear the Professor's story."