"See here," he said, "you are all my guests. I am unreasonably fond of
you, even if we can't see Life from the same point of view. Man as an
individual, and Man as a part of the Scheme are two different things.
I asked you down here to enjoy yourselves, not to argue. I
apologize--all my fault--unpardonable of me. Come now--we have decided
to stay as long as we can--we are all interested. It is not every
generation that has the honor to sit by, and watch two systems meet
at the crossroads and dispute the passage to the Future. We'll agree
not to discuss the ethics of the matter again. If the men marching out
there to the frontier can agree to face the cannon--and there are as
many opinions there as here--surely we can _look on_ in silence."

And on that agreement we all went to bed.

But on the following day, as we sat in the garden after dinner, our
attempts to "keep off the grass" were miserably visible. They cast a
constraint on the party. Every topic seemed to lead to the forbidden
enclosure. It was at a very critical moment that the Sculptor, sitting
cross-legged on a bench, in a real Alma Tadema attitude, filled the
dangerous pause with:

"It was in the days of our Lord 1348 that there happened in Florence,
the finest city in Italy--"

And the Violinist, who was leaning against a tree, touched an
imaginary mandolin, concluding: "A most terrible plague."

The Critic leaped to his feet.