'Yes, a sort of plea for the aesthetic basis of society! It's the only cure for the horrors of modern civilization--for the very thing we were talking about at tea! What is it but a loss of the sense of beauty that's to blame?' Elbows on knees, he leaned so far forward that he could see both faces, and yet his own betrayed the eye turned inward--the face of the one who quotes. The ladies knew that he was obliging them with a memorized extract from 'A Plea for the AEsthetic Basis.' 'Nothing worse can happen to the world than loss of its sense of Beauty. Men, high and low alike, cling to it still as incarnated in women.' (Hermione crossed her pointed toes and lowered her long eyelashes.) 'We have made Woman the object of our deepest adoration! We have set her high on a throne of gold. We have searched through the world for jewels to crown her. We have built millions of temples to our ideal of womanhood and called them homes. We have fought and wrought and sung for her--and all we ask in return is that she should tend the sacred fire, so that the light of Beauty might not die out of the world.' He was not ill-pleased with his period. 'But women'--he leaned back, and illustrated with the pliant white hands that were ornamented with outlandish rings--'women are not content with their high and holy office.' '_Some_ women,' amended Hermione, softly. 'There are more and more every day who are not content,' he said sternly; then, for an instant unbending and craning a little forward, 'Of course I don't mean you--_you_ are exceptions--but of women in the mass! Look at them! They force their way into men's work, they crowd into the universities--yes, yes' (in vain Hermione tried to reassure him by 'exceptions')--'Beauty is nothing to them! They fling aside their delicate, provocative draperies, they cast off their scented sandals. They pull on brown boots and bicycling skirts! They put man's yoke of hard linen round their ivory throats, and they scramble off their jewelled thrones to mount the rostrum and the omnibus!' 'Why? _Why_ do they?' Vida demanded, laughing. 'Nobody ever tells me why. I can't believe they're as unselfish as _you_ make out.' 'I!' 'You ought to admire them if they voluntarily give up all those beautiful things--knowing beforehand they'll only win men's scorn. For you've always warned them!' He didn't even hear. 'Ah, Ladies, Ladies!' half laughing, but really very much in earnest, he apostrophized the peccant sex, 'I should like to ask, are we men to look upon our homes as dusty din-filled camps on the field of battle, or as holy temples of Peace? Ah!' He leaned back in his corner, stretched out his long legs, and thrust his restless hands in his pockets. 'If they knew!' 'Women?' asked Hermione, with the air of one painstakingly brushing up crumbs of wisdom. Paul Filey nodded. 'Knew----?'