“She has so much to learn,” I said, “so much to understand. She’s like a little child, Ezekiel, just as you supposed—a female child that has never been properly taught.” “Yes, very likely,” he said. “But why shouldn’t I teach her myself? I’m the President of the Union after all.” “But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “undoubted as are your gifts both as organizer and financer of our movement, do you really consider that you have quite the personality for such intimate soul-work as Miss Moonbeam requires?” “Absolutely,” said Ezekiel. “Then I can only say,” I replied, “that I fail to agree with you.” It was an awkward moment, and it was not until the third attempt that Ezekiel succeeded in making himself intelligible. “And so you mean to imply,” he said, “that for the purposes of approaching Miss Moonbeam, your personality is superior to mine?” I touched his arm, not without affection. “Or shall we rather say,” I replied, “that it is more attractive?” “But I deny it,” he cried. “I deny it most passionately. I deny it with every fibre of my being,” I withdrew my glove for a moment from his coat-sleeve. “But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “that doesn’t alter the position.” “The position?” he said. “What position?” “Why, the position,” I replied, “between Mary and myself.” For a moment the silence was almost terrifying. Then he dropped his umbrella, and I put my foot upon it. “Between who?” he said. “Between who?” “Between Mary,” I repeated, “and myself.” “But do you mean to tell me,” he cried, “that as Vice-President—as Vice-President, I say, of a Union such as ours——” I touched his sleeve again. “Or shall we say _an_ Union, seeing that Union begins with a vowel?” But he stamped his foot, evidently losing self-control. “No, we won’t,” he screamed. “We won’t say _an_ Union. Why should we say _an_ Union if we don’t want to? We don’t say _an_ Youth or _an_ Yew-tree.” “Simply,” I replied, “because the two latter words happen to be inaugurated with a consonant.” “But I deny it,” he shouted. “I deny it most passionately. I deny it with every fibre of my being.” For a moment I stood aghast. Hitherto I had been conciliatory. But here was a question upon which there could be no compromise. “But, Ezekiel Stool,” I said, “as man to man—nay, as Xtian gentleman to Xtian gentleman—do you mean to tell me that you are prepared to deny that the word Yew-tree begins with a Y?” “No, I don’t,” he said, “I deny it completely. I deny it with all the vehemence at my command.” But I held up my hand. “Just a moment,” I said. “This is a matter, Ezekiel, upon which I must be absolutely clear. Do you mean to deny that the word does begin with a Y? Or do you mean to deny that you meant to tell me that you were prepared to deny that it did?” “I deny it all,” said Ezekiel. “I deny the whole thing.” “But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “that is impossible.” “But how can it be impossible,” he said, “if I’ve just done it?”