'I shall be most happy to give you any information in my power. In the first place, I must tell you that I, like you and your friend, am a guest here to-day. I belong to two societies, but not to this. I therefore fear you have fallen into bad hands; if you will allow me, I shall be most happy to introduce you to the secretary or president.' 'Thank you,' answered Nevill, 'we could not think of intruding on the attention of any officials. We are not scientific men, but I take an interest in science. My friend, who is a poet, is rather afraid of science. We only want a few words about the men around us. I daresay we are now in a room with the flower of England's scientific men.' 'Yes. There is scarcely a man of the first eminence in science who is not here to-day. But may I ask why your friend is afraid of science?' 'He has a notion it is subversive.' 'Of course it is. But it is subversive of only error. My dear sir, you need never fear science. It can never do anyone harm. If I tell you the distance between this and the sun is so much, you may believe me or not. I don't roast you alive for doubting me. If we say two and two are four and prove the theorem, and you will not believe us, we will not stone you. Weak-knee'd Christians are afraid of us; yet where, in the history of Christianity, is a more charitable and tolerant spirit to be found than among the children of science?' 'But the birth of science seems to me the death of poetry,' said Osborne, not wishing to get on the graver branch of the argument. 'I am afraid you are right. As the inferior polypi and worms have been gradually pushed to the wall by their betters in the three ages of the world before man, so now among men we see the superior heads pushing the inferior heads to the wall. The mere hunter is almost gone. The mere grazier is going fast. You can see that at a glance. The hunting and the pastoral ages have passed. They were lazy, wasteful ages compared with ours. Ours is the age of hedged farms and exactly-defined rights. The day of the poet is gone. The head of the poet is going to the wall. What did he do in his time for man? Nothing but fill the head with vapours and history with myths. The hammer-headed man of science is now exterminating the delicately-headed man of art. The poet must go, and is going, as the black man must go, and is going.' 'That's dismal for you, Osborne,' said Nevill. 'I assure you,' protested Osborne, colouring and feeling very uncomfortable,' I am not a poet. Never wrote a line in my life.' 'I hope, sir,' said the stranger, 'you do not for a moment fancy I mean what I said to apply personally. Nothing of the kind. I was speaking of your species.' 'Oh, he understands you, sir,' said Nevill. Then, to turn the conversation away from Osborne, and gain the information he wished to get, he said,--'Who is this man here on my left? And out of mercy to this poet, don't use too technical language.'