‘I’ll have a shilling each way on it,’ murmured the Ass (an incorrigible youth, quite the Winston Churchill of our family cabinet), using his customary formula. Unheeding, the Bluestocking chirruped on severely: ‘You must know, if you have ever studied sociology, that marriage is essentially a _social contract_, primarily based on selfishness. At present it still retains its semi-barbarous form, and those who preach without reason of its alleged sacredness would be better employed in suggesting how the savage code now in vogue can be modified to meet the necessities of modern civilisation.’ She paused for breath. The Good Stockbroker was pale, but faced her manfully. ‘Well done, Bluestocking!’ said the Weary Roué. ‘Wonderful woman, our Quacker,’ said the Ass, ‘I’ll have a shilling each way on her.’ The Wicked Stockbroker took a second helping of salad, and ate on unheeding, whilst the Gentle Lady at the head of the table anxiously watched the Family Egotist, who looked apoplectic and was toying truculently with a wineglass with evident danger of shortening its career of usefulness. ‘I was taught,’ said the Good Stockbroker slowly, ‘to regard marriage as a sacred institution--a holy mystery.’ ‘Then you were taught rot,’ snapped the Bluestocking, thus living up to the worst traditions of the polite dinner-table, and quivering with intellectual fury. ‘Recrimination--’ began the Good Stockbroker. (‘Good word that, I’ll have a shilling each way on it,’ murmured the Ass.) ‘--is not argument,’ continued the Good Stockbroker. ‘It may not be, but what you said was _rot_,’ replied the Bluestocking, ‘“a holy mystery, instituted in the time of man’s innocency”--I recognise the quotation! And when was that time, pray? Are you referring to the Garden of Eden, or to what part of the Bible? The chosen people, the Hebrews, were polygamists from the time of Lamech, evidently with the approval of the Deity. Even the immaculate David had thirteen wives, and the saintly Solomon a clear thousand. Not much of a holy mystery in those days, eh?’ ‘Dear Bluestocking, you really _are_--’ murmured the Gentle Lady. ‘Not at all; she’s perfectly sound,’ interposed the Weary Roué, gloating with ghoulish joy over the Good Stockbroker’s apparent discomfort. ‘I give in,’ said the latter, and a yell of joy burst from the Ass and the Weary Roué. ‘I really cannot argue against a lady of such overwhelming eloquence,’ he continued, bowing in his delightful courtly way. ‘All the same, I shall always believe that marriage is a holy institution.’ ‘My dear old chap,’ said the Weary Roué, hastily, with one eye on the Family Egotist, who was certainly being treated badly that evening: ‘your high-mindedness is admirable, quite admirable, but it won’t work; it doesn’t fit into modern conditions. Theoretically, Marriage is a Holy Mystery no doubt--in practice it’s apt to be an Unholy Muddle, sometimes a Mess. Personally I believe in polygamy.’