“Take that egg, for instance. Natural eggs are never eaten now, any more than swans and peacocks, yet I don’t see why they shouldn’t be, though at the bare suggestion of eating a real egg every one would recoil with horror; but why should they be kept for broods only? They are wholesome enough, or they used to be, anyway, and if they were taken from the fowls and other egg-laying creatures, more eggs would be laid and there would be plenty for all.” “Probably,” said prosaic Gilbert, “but the real eggs had to be boiled, and cooked in other ways, and beaten, and goodness knows what, and all that sort of thing must have been a shocking waste of time. Besides, the shells are brittle, and if you should by chance sit on a basketful of them, they would, of course, explode and break and make a nasty mess, to say nothing of the perfume of a bad one. There is not one of those objections in a modern egg, and they are wholesome, nutritious, of fine flavour, will keep for years in these capsules, and if you jump on one you will merely alter its shape and flatten it; no cooking is necessary, they are pure and sterilised, and exert an antiseptic action on the stomach, counteracting any tendency to undue acidity, ulceration, cancer, and lots of other things—ergo, I say they are better than the natural article, and not one in a million is faulty, except by deliberate fraud.” And Gilbert, after this tirade, continued his meal with renewed vigour, as if to make up for lost time. “But in this age it is supposed that there is no fraud,” observed Ross. “Just so,” replied Gilbert, with a kind of ‘I’m busy’ air; “but ever since man was created some dispositions are and always will be treacherous.” “Probably,” assented Ross, plucking a blade of grass and breaking it into short lengths, “but everything in this world is so cut and dried, so trite, that I am weary of it.” “Poor fellow!” said Gilbert, banteringly; “you need your diet changing; you’re secreting too much bile and it’s giving you the blues. Just talk and let off as much as you can whilst I finish my dinner; I was bothering with my anchor while you were feeding; the blessed thing wouldn’t suck. Now, fire away, and talk yourself into a better humour—I’ll not interrupt.” “My humour is all right,” answered Ross, laughing, “but as I lay here on this beautiful turf and saw our ships riding at anchor, as much under control as if on the sea, I could not help thinking of all the past.” “Think away, old man, only think aloud,” said Gilbert, as his friend paused.