But in this Candler was mistaken. What had disturbed the Lord Chancellor was a coarsely disrespectful article on the Absolute by a Cambridge Rhodes scholar, written in that flighty facetious strain that spreads now like a pestilence over modern philosophical discussion. “Does the Absolute, on Lord Moggeridge’s own showing, mean anything more than an eloquent oiliness uniformly distributed through space?” and so on. Pretty bad! Lord Moggeridge early in life had deliberately acquired a quite exceptional power of mental self-control. He took his perturbed mind now and threw it forcibly into the consideration of a case upon which he had reserved judgment. He was to catch the 3.35 at Paddington, and at two he was smoking a cigar after a temperate lunch and reading over the notes of this judgment. It was then that the telephone bell became audible, and Candler came in to inform him that Lord Chickney was anxious to see him at once upon a matter of some slight importance. “Slight importance?” asked Lord Moggeridge. “Some slight importance, my lord.” “Some? Slight?” “’Is Lordship, my lord, mumbles rather now ’is back teeth ’ave gone,” said Candler, “but so I understand ’im.” “These apologetic assertive phrases annoy me, Candler,” said Lord Moggeridge over his shoulder. “You see,” he turned round and spoke very clearly, “either the matter is of importance or it is not of importance. A thing must either be or not be. I wish you would manage—when you get messages on the telephone—.... But I suppose that is asking too much.... Will you explain to him, Candler, when we start, and—ask him, Candler—ask him what sort of matter it is.” Candler returned after some parleying. “So far as I can make ’is Lordship out, my lord, ’e says ’e wants to set you right about something, my lord. He says something about a _little_ misapprehension.” “These diminutives, Candler, kill sense. Does he say what sort—what sort—of _little_ misapprehension?” “He says something—I’m sorry, my lord, but it’s about Shonts, me lord.” “Then I don’t want to hear about it,” said Lord Moggeridge. There was a pause. The Lord Chancellor resumed his reading with a deliberate obviousness; the butler hovered. “I’m sorry, my lord, but I can’t think exactly what I ought to say to ’is lordship, my lord.” “Tell him—tell him that I do not wish to hear anything more about Shonts for ever. Simply.” Candler hesitated and went out, shutting the door carefully lest any fragment of his halting rendering of this message to Lord Chickney should reach his master’s ears. Lord Moggeridge’s powers of mental control were, I say, very great—He could dismiss subjects from his mind absolutely. In a few instants he had completely forgotten Shonts and was making notes with a silver-cased pencil on the margins of his draft judgment. § 5 He became aware that Candler had returned.