Lady Muriel gave me an approving smile. “But _lunatics_ would always write new books, surely?” she went on. “They _couldn’t_ write the sane books over again!” “True,” said Arthur. “But _their_ books would come to an end, also. The number of lunatic _books_ is as finite as the number of lunatics.” “And _that_ number is becoming greater every year,” said a pompous man, whom I recognised as the self-appointed showman on the day of the picnic. “So they say,” replied Arthur. “And, when ninety per cent. of us are lunatics,” (he seemed to be in a wildly nonsensical mood) “the asylums will be put to their proper use.” “And that is——?” the pompous man gravely enquired. “_To shelter the sane!_” said Arthur. “_We_ shall bar ourselves in. The lunatics will have it all their own way, _outside_. They’ll do it a little queerly, no doubt. Railway-collisions will be always happening: steamers always blowing up: most of the towns will be burnt down: most of the ships sunk——” “And most of the men _killed_!” murmured the pompous man, who was evidently hopelessly bewildered. “Certainly,” Arthur assented. “Till at last there will be _fewer_ lunatics than sane men. Then _we_ come out: _they_ go in: and things return to their normal condition!” The pompous man frowned darkly, and bit his lip, and folded his arms, vainly trying to think it out. “He is _jesting_!” he muttered to himself at last, in a tone of withering contempt, as he stalked away. By this time the other guests had arrived; and dinner was announced. Arthur of course took down Lady Muriel: and _I_ was pleased to find myself seated at her other side, with a severe-looking old lady (whom I had not met before, and whose name I had, as is usual in introductions, entirely failed to catch, merely gathering that it sounded like a compound-name) as my partner for the banquet. She appeared, however, to be acquainted with Arthur, and confided to me in a low voice her opinion that he was “a very argumentative young man.” Arthur, for his part, seemed well inclined to show himself worthy of the character she had given him, and, hearing her say “I never take wine with my soup!” (this was _not_ a confidence to me, but was launched upon Society, as a matter of general interest), he at once challenged a combat by asking her “_when_ would you say that property _commence_ in a plate of soup?” “This is _my_ soup,” she sternly replied: “and what is before you is _yours_.” “No doubt,” said Arthur: “but _when_ did I begin to own it? Up to the moment of its being put into the plate, it was the property of our host: while being offered round the table, it was, let us say, held in trust by the waiter: did it become mine when I accepted it? Or when it was placed before me? Or when I took the first spoonful?” “He is a _very_ argumentative young man!” was all the old lady would say: but she said it audibly, this time, feeling that Society had a right to know it.