"Shall we say _beauty?"_ softly queried a tragic-faced youth,
sensitive and shrinking, crowned with an abominably trimmed head of
long hair.

Ernestine rose suddenly at her place, hands on table, leaning forward
with a fine simulation of intensity.

"They're off!" she cried. "They're off! Now we'll have the universe
settled all over again for the thousandth time. Theodore"--to the
youthful poet--"it's a poor start. Get into the running. Ride your
father ion and your mother ion, and you'll finish three lengths
ahead."

A roar of laughter was her reward, and the poet blushed and receded
into his sensitive shell.

Ernestine turned on the black-bearded one:

"Now, Aaron. He's not in form. You start it. You know how. Begin: 'As
Bergson so well has said, with the utmost refinement of philosophic
speech allied with the most comprehensive intellectual outlook
that....'"

More laughter roared down the table, drowning Ernestine's conclusion
as well as the laughing retort of the black-bearded one.

"Our philosophers won't have a chance to-night," Paula stole in an
aside to Graham.