“The country classes,” said Mr. Paramor quietly, “are especially backward in such matters. They have strong, meat-fed instincts, and what with the county Members, the Bishops, the Peers, all the hereditary force of the country, they still rule the roast. And there's a certain disease--to make a very poor joke, call it 'Pendycitis' with which most of these people are infected. They're 'crass.' They do things, but they do them the wrong way! They muddle through with the greatest possible amount of unnecessary labour and suffering! It's part of the hereditary principle. I haven't had to do with them thirty five years for nothing!” Gregory turned his face away. “Your joke is very poor,” he said. “I don't believe they are like that! I won't admit it. If there is such a disease, it's our business to find a remedy.” “Nothing but an operation will cure it,” said Mr. Paramor; “and before operating there's a preliminary process to be gone through. It was discovered by Lister.” Gregory answered “Paramor, I hate your pessimism!” Mr. Paramor's eyes haunted Gregory's back. “But I am not a pessimist,” he said. “Far from it. “'When daisies pied and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver-white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue Do paint the meadows with delight, The cuckoo then, on every tree----'” Gregory turned on him. “How can you quote poetry, and hold the views you do? We ought to construct----” “You want to build before you've laid your foundations,” said Mr. Paramor. “You let your feelings carry you away, Vigil. The state of the marriage laws is only a symptom. It's this disease, this grudging narrow spirit in men, that makes such laws necessary. Unlovely men, unlovely laws--what can you expect?” “I will never believe that we shall be content to go on living in a slough of--of----” “Provincialism!” said Mr. Paramor. “You should take to gardening; it makes one recognise what you idealists seem to pass over--that men, my dear friend, are, like plants, creatures of heredity and environment; their growth is slow. You can't get grapes from thorns, Vigil, or figs from thistles--at least, not in one generation--however busy and hungry you may be!” “Your theory degrades us all to the level of thistles.” “Social laws depend for their strength on the harm they have it in their power to inflict, and that harm depends for its strength on the ideals held by the man on whom the harm falls. If you dispense with the marriage tie, or give up your property and take to Brotherhood, you'll have a very thistley time, but you won't mind that if you're a fig. And so on ad lib. It's odd, though, how soon the thistles that thought themselves figs get found out. There are many things I hate, Vigil. One is extravagance, and another humbug!” But Gregory stood looking at the sky. “We seem to have wandered from the point,” said Mr. Paramor, “and I think we had better go in. It's nearly eleven.”