Lady Muriel gave me an approving smile. "But lunatics would always write new books, surely?" she went on. "They couldn't write the sane books over again!"
"True," said Arthur. "But their books would come to an end, also. The number of lunatic books is as finite as the number of lunatics."
"And that number is becoming greater every year," said a pompous man, whom I recognised as the self-appointed showman on the day of the picnic.
"So they say," replied Arthur. "And, when ninety per cent. of us are lunatics," (he seemed to be in a wildly nonsensical mood) "the asylums will be put to their proper use."
"And that is?" the pompous man gravely enquired.
"To shelter the sane!" said Arthur. "We shall bar ourselves in. The lunatics will have it all their own way, outside. They'll do it a little queerly, no doubt. Railway-collisions will be always happening: steamers always blowing up: most of the towns will be burnt down: most of the ships sunk"
