But Mr. Mercaptan refused to accept the name of earwig at any price. “_What_ there is to be ashamed of in being civilized, I _really_ don’t know,” he said, in a voice that was now the bull’s, now the piping robin’s. “No, if I glory in anything, it’s in my little rococo boudoir, and the conversations across the polished mahogany, and the delicate, lascivious, _witty_ little flirtations on ample sofas inhabited by the soul of Crebillon Fils. We needn’t _all_ be Russians, I hope. These revolting Dostoievskys.” Mr. Mercaptan spoke with a profound feeling. “Nor all Utopians. Homo _au naturel_——” Mr. Mercaptan applied his thumb and forefinger to his, alas! too snout-like nose, “_ça pue_. And as for Homo à la H. G. Wells—_ça ne pue pas assez_. What I glory in is the civilized, middle way between stink and asepsis. Give me a little musk, a little intoxicating feminine exhalation, the bouquet of old wine and strawberries, a lavender bag under every pillow and pot-pourri in the corners of the drawing-room. Readable books, amusing conversation, civilized women, graceful art and dry vintage, music, with a quiet life and reasonable comfort—that’s _all_ I ask for.” “Talking about comfort,” Gumbril put in, before Lypiatt had time to fling his answering thunders, “I must tell you about my new invention. Pneumatic trousers,” he explained. “Blow them up. Perfect comfort. You see the idea? You’re a sedentary man, Mercaptan. Let me put you down for a couple of pairs.” Mr. Mercaptan shook his head. “Too Wellsian,” he said. “Too horribly Utopian. They’d be ludicrously out of place in my boudoir. And besides, my sofa is well enough sprung already, thank you.” “But what about Tolstoy?” shouted Lypiatt, letting out his impatience in a violent blast. Mr. Mercaptan waved his hand. “Russian,” he said, “Russian.” “And Michelangelo?” “Alberti,” said Gumbril, very seriously, giving them all a piece of his father’s mind—“Alberti was much the better architect, I assure you.” “And pretentiousness for pretentiousness,” said Mr. Mercaptan, “I prefer old Borromini and the baroque.” “What about Beethoven?” went on Lypiatt. “What about Blake? Where do they come in under your scheme of things?” Mr. Mercaptan shrugged his shoulders. “They stay in the hall,” he said. “I don’t let them into the boudoir.” “You disgust me,” said Lypiatt, with rising indignation, and making wider gestures. “You disgust me—you and your odious little sham eighteenth-century civilization; your piddling little poetry; your art for art’s sake instead of for God’s sake; your nauseating little copulations without love or passion; your hoggish materialism; your bestial indifference to all that’s unhappy and your yelping hatred of all that’s great.” “Charming, charming,” murmured Mr. Mercaptan, who was pouring oil on his salad.