The Pessimist, who was fond of talking, now broke in. "That," he said, "is most attractive, but not quite fair to me. I should like to finish what I have begun. And I doubt if my views will be quite in place in the drawing-room. Besides, the Professor must finish his port. I was only going to say," he went on, "that the having to put up with all that comes in human shape is a very serious affair. It seems to me that we all arrive in the world like dumped goods. Nobody has 'ordered' us, and perhaps nobody wants us. Our parents wanted us, did you say? Well, I suppose our parents wanted children; but it doesn't follow that they wanted _you_ or _me_. Somebody else might have filled the book as well, or better. Our birth is a matter of absolute chance. For example, my father has often told me how he met my mother. There was a picnic on a Swiss lake. My father's watch was slow, and when he arrived at the quay the boat that carried his party was out of sight. It so happened that there was another party--people my father didn't know--going to another island, and seeing him disconsolate on the quay they took pity on him and made him go with them. It was in that boat that he first met my mother. The moral is obvious. If my father's watch had kept better time I should never have been in existence. ["A jolly good thing, too," whispered the Son of the House.] Neither would my six brothers, nor any of our descendants to the _n_th generation. Well, that's how the whole planet gets itself _manned_. That's how the crew is 'chosen.' And that's why the Expedition gets into trouble on rounding Cape Horn." "It's a capital introduction to my story," said the Professor, in whom, after his second claret-glass of port, _The World Purpose_ had assumed a new intensity. "I wish the ladies could have heard it." "I venture to think," said our Host, "that the ladies will understand the story all the better for not having heard the introduction. You see, I am assuming that the story is a good one--which is as much as to say that no introduction is needed." "Thank you," said the Professor. "I say," broke in the Son of the House, "I say, Professor, it's a pity you didn't take that question up in _The World Purpose_. That's an awfully good point of the Pessimist's, and a jolly difficult one to answer, too. I should like to see you tackle it. Why, I once heard the Pater here say to the Mater----" "We'll go upstairs," said our Host. * * * * * "About ten years ago," the Professor began, "I was travelling one night in a third-class carriage to a town on the North-east Coast. My two companions in the compartment were evidently mother and daughter. The mother had a singularly beautiful and intelligent face; and the daughter, who was about twelve years old, resembled her. They were dressed in good taste, without rings or finery, and, so far as I am able to judge such things, without expense.