“Because the two alternatives,” I replied, “are contradictory.” “Then I deny them both,” he said. “I deny them utterly. I deny them to the utmost limit of my capacity,” “But by denying one,” I said, “you affirm the other, and by denying the other you affirm the first.” “Then I deny neither,” he said. “I deny neither of them. I deny neither of them to my last breath.” “Then you affirm both?” I asked. “Absolutely and entirely,” he said, “to the remotest follicle of my manhood.” “But that leaves us,” I said, “just as we were.” “Very likely,” he replied. “I don’t know.” “But I don’t understand,” I said. “Nor do I,” he said. We stood staring at one another in silence. “Then we’d better go back,” I said, “to the original Yew-tree.” “What Yew-tree?” enquired Ezekiel. “Why, the one you referred to,” I said, “as not requiring an _an_.” “But I’ve already told you,” he said, “that I deny that.” “But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “you can’t deny things like that.” “I not only can,” he said, “but I do.” “But you’ll soon be denying,” I cried, “that I’m the Vice-President of the Anti-Dramatic and Saltatory Union.” “I certainly shall,” he said, “if you continue to go about referring to actresses by their Xtian names.” “But, my dear Ezekiel,” I said, “it was entirely at her own request that I referred to Miss Moonbeam as Mary.” He stepped back a pace, obviously shaken. “Do you mean to tell me,” he said, “that she asked you to?” “Most certainly,” I replied, “and if you would like to hear them, I can repeat her actual words.” “Please do,” he said. “‘Oh, Mr. Carp,’” I said, “‘won’t you call me Mary?’” His face brightened a little. “Then she didn’t call you Augustus?” he said. “She hasn’t done so,” I answered, “as yet.” “And perhaps she never will,” he said, “never will.” “I don’t quite see,” I said, “why you should say that.” “Perhaps not,” he replied. “But I do say it.” “Of course I shouldn’t encourage her to,” I said, “until she had altered her profession.” “And perhaps she won’t,” he said, “perhaps she won’t.” “Won’t what?” I asked. “Alter her profession.” “But don’t you want her to?” I cried. “Oh, of course,” he said. “But they seldom do, you know, unless they marry.” “Precisely,” I said, “unless they marry.” He opened his mouth for a moment, but only breathed through it. “But you don’t mean to tell me,” he said, “that as Vice-President——?” “It might be my duty,” I said, “to sacrifice myself.” “So much as that?” he said. “So much as that, Augustus?” He covered his eyes for a moment with his gloved hands. Then he suddenly remembered that he had dropped his umbrella. “It’s here,” I said, “under my foot.” “Oh, thank you,” he said, “thank you.” Then he held out his hands to me with frank contrition. “Oh, my dear friend,” he said, “forgive me for misjudging you. But as your President, I could never permit it.” “But why not?” I said, trying to release my hands.