He still seemed reluctant to give up his comet. “Socialism’s all right,” he said, “but if that thing up there _was_ to hit the earth it might matter.” “Nothing matters but human beings.” “Suppose it killed them all.” “Oh,” said I, “that’s Rot,” “I wonder,” said Parload, dreadfully divided in his allegiance. He looked at the comet. He seemed on the verge of repeating his growing information about the nearness of the paths of the earth and comet, and all that might ensue from that. So I cut in with something I had got out of a now forgotten writer called Ruskin, a volcano of beautiful language and nonsensical suggestions, who prevailed very greatly with eloquent excitable young men in those days. Something it was about the insignificance of science and the supreme importance of Life. Parload stood listening, half turned towards the sky with the tips of his fingers on his spectroscope. He seemed to come to a sudden decision. “No. I don’t agree with you, Leadford,” he said. “You don’t understand about science.” Parload rarely argued with that bluntness of opposition. I was so used to entire possession of our talk that his brief contradiction struck me like a blow. “Don’t agree with me!” I repeated. “No,” said Parload “But how?” “I believe science is of more importance than socialism,” he said. “Socialism’s a theory. Science—science is something more.” And that was really all he seemed to be able to say. We embarked upon one of those queer arguments illiterate young men used always to find so heating. Science or Socialism? It was, of course, like arguing which is right, left handedness or a taste for onions, it was altogether impossible opposition. But the range of my rhetoric enabled me at last to exasperate Parload, and his mere repudiation of my conclusions sufficed to exasperate me, and we ended in the key of a positive quarrel. “Oh, very well!” said I. “So long as I know where we are!” I slammed his door as though I dynamited his house, and went raging down the street, but I felt that he was already back at the window worshiping his blessed line in the green, before I got round the corner. I had to walk for an hour or so, before I was cool enough to go home. And it was Parload who had first introduced me to socialism! Recreant! The most extraordinary things used to run through my head in those days. I will confess that my mind ran persistently that evening upon revolutions after the best French pattern, and I sat on a Committee of Safety and tried backsliders. Parload was there, among the prisoners, backsliderissimus, aware too late of the error of his ways. His hands were tied behind his back ready for the shambles; through the open door one heard the voice of justice, the rude justice of the people. I was sorry, but I had to do my duty.