"If you do approve of originality," said May, "then why not let Oxford work out its own evolution, in its own way?" "It needs entire reconstruction," said Boreham, stubbornly. "You would like to pass everything through a mill and turn it out to a pattern," said May. "But that's not the way the world progresses. Entire reconstruction would spoil Oxford. What it wants is what we all want--the pruning of our vices and the development of our virtues. We don't want to be shorn of all that makes up our personality." Boreham said, "That is a different matter; but why should we argue?" "To leave Oxford and speak of ourselves, of you and me," said May, persisting. "You don't want to be made like me; but we both want to have the selfishness squeezed out of us. There! I warn you that, having once started, I shall probably go on lamenting like the prophet Jeremiah until I reach the Lodgings! So if you want to escape, do find some pressing engagement. I shan't be offended in the very least." How she longed for him to go! But was he capable of discovering this even when it was broadly hinted? Boreham's beard moved irritably. The word "selfish" stung him. There was no such thing as being "unselfish"--one man wanted one thing, another man wanted another--and there you are! "Human nature is selfish," he retorted. "Saints are selfish. They want to have a good time in the next world. Each man always wants to please himself, only tastes differ." Boreham spoke in emphatic tones. If May was thinking of her husband, then this piece of truth must be put before her without delay. War widows had the habit of speaking of their husbands as heroes, when all they had done was to have got themselves blown to pieces while they were trying to blow other people to pieces. "You make questions of taste very important," said May, looking down the misty street. "Some men have a taste for virtue and generosity, and others have taste for vice and meanness." Boreham looked at her features closely in the dim light. "Are you angry with me?" he asked. "Not at all," said May. "We are arguing about words. You object to the use of the word 'selfish,' so I adopt your term 'taste.'" "There's no reason why we should argue just now," said Boreham. "Not that argument affects friendship! Friendship goes behind all that, doesn't it?" He asked this anxiously. "I don't expect my friends to agree with me in all points," said May, smiling. "That would be very selfish!" She laughed. "I beg your pardon. I mean that my taste in friends is pretty catholic," and here Boreham detected a sudden coldness in her voice. "Friendship--I will say more than that--love--has nothing to do with 'points of view,'" he began hastily. "A man may fall in love with a woman as she passes his window, though he may never exchange a word with her. Such things have happened."