Kone ruffled the dulcet informations of the others now and then with a polite but ironical jest that was never too obviously at their expense; Martha preserved her eagerly listening silence; and Helen sat like a dazed woman at a verbal banquet, scarcely daring to touch the glittering food in front of her. Finally Jarvin found Carl’s direction with a question that jerked him back to the gathering although the exact words eluded him. “What were you saying? I haven’t been listening,” said Carl. “That’s an insulting confession”--Edith Colson’s voice snapped like a succession of breaking wires. “Aren’t you interested in books?” “Well, not in the broad and detailed way in which they seem to interest the rest of you,” said Carl, with the sleepily candid smile which usually made another person long to investigate the resiliency of his throat. “Once every five months I read one that should be spoken of with great vehemence and then gradually forgotten, but that’s a rare occurrence.” “O come, that’s an easy, superior attitude,” said Jarvin. “Come down to the valley and join us, Mr. Poet!” “All right, I’m down. I’ve passed your hills of judicial comment and reached the moonlight on the street pavement outside. It suggests a contest. Suppose we all make up a line describing the moonlight on the street--the moonlight that falls like a quiet silver derision on all philosophies--and we’ll see which of us is best acquainted with the penitent promise of words. I’ll begin. ‘The moonlight repressed the grey street, like a phantom virtue.’ Only original lines--nothing from books.” “Here I am in the midst of a talk on Bergson, and this young poet asks me to make up some pretty lines about the moon,” said Jarvin, in a voice of poised scorn. “I read enough about the moon in the flood of mushy poetry that pours into my office.” “You might try to describe it yourself,” said Carl. “In that way you could provide an excellent antidote for your disgust. It is, I assure you, an important task to rescue the moon from the rape of trite words.” “No, I’ll leave that to minor poets,” said Jarvin. Carl gave him the malicious grin of one who is enjoying a sham battle. “If the moon doesn’t satisfy you, Mr. Jarvin, let’s try that whispering prison of trees just outside of this window, or the people who place their unsearching feet upon streets every day. Anything except voluble shop-talk about the latest mediocrities with now and then a philosopher or scientist thrown in for purposes of repentance and caution.” “Well, our young iconoclast even scorns philosophy,” said Jarvin. “Perhaps it speaks with too much thought and authority to suit your fancy. It’s much easier to let your emotions juggle words.” “Philosophy is a bottle-faced dwarf drowning with imposing howls in an ocean that does not see him,” said Carl, with a languid lack of interest. “But philosophy should be read, if only with a careful indifference.”