“Quite so; and sooner or later the people will arise and wipe out the middle class in this country, and leave nothing between them and us,” said Sewall, placidly. “That is why I am anxious to have my paper appeal more and more to the masses.” “But when that day comes, we--that is, the people--will destroy you, too,” said Derwent. Sewall looked again at Derwent, with his expression of polite curiosity, as at a misplaced mummy. “Our grandchildren, you mean,” said he. “I haven’t any.” “All thinking men are agreed as to the coming _déchéance_,” put in Wemyss. “They only differ as to the feelings with which they regard it.” “Well,” said Sewall, in a tone of finality, “we can get a good time out of this world as it is; those to come may amuse themselves as they like. What do you think, Mrs. Gower?” “I think you are all pessimists,” said she. “Surely we live in a most enlightened age; consider the progress that has been made in a few years! Why, in my grandfather’s old house they hadn’t even carpets. Now the very poorest can have everything.” “Everybody has a chance to make money now,” said Baby Malgam. “Just think how many self-made men you meet in society!” “You wouldn’t have us go back to those days, surely,” said Flossie. “Just think how narrow people were! And everybody thought almost everybody else was going to be damned. But we are growing more liberal every day.” “Ay,” grunted Derwent. “We are above the revelation of Christ; but our clever women talk glibly of theosophy, and go into fashionable crazes over imported Buddhist priests; and nobody is afraid of being damned.” “What _is_ theosophy, Mr. Derwent?” said Marion Lenoir. “Something to do with spirit-rapping, isn’t it?--or palmistry?” “I am sure,” said Mrs. Malgam, “I was always brought up to go to church; but when I was first married, Mr. Ten Eyck didn’t care for it.” “The only advantage should be, that the general smash gives us at least a chance at personal liberty. But most of these fads start in my place; and in Boston the masses are more philistine than almost anywhere,” said Caryl Wemyss. “There is some strength in Philistinism,” said Sewall, curtly. “What I can’t stand is the critical crowd, the cousins of the nephews of the friends of Emerson, who now talk sagely of the fine art of their boarding-house literature, of the tea-table realism school--what Poe called, the Frog-pond weakly school. They are too delicate to take life straight, at most they can only stomach a criticism of a critique of humanity, as we give babies peptonized preparations of refined oatmeal. Their last fad is pure government. Pure government!” repeated Sewall, with a snort of disgust.