cation. Why, my wife says,—excuse me, a lady with whom I was formerly acquainted used to say,—'No woman can get along on less than a thrill a day,' of one sort or another. It's rooted in the human organism—this hunger for occasional escape from humdrum. 'Tedium'—what was it you said the other day, Professor? Rather good, you know—'tedium is three fourths of life.' I agree with you there, Professor; only I figure the tedious fraction is larger than that, even for moderately contented and comfortable people. And for the multitude, for the masses, the fraction that is not tedium is almost negligible, when it is not positive pain. But—but, in that microscopic fraction there must be a few moments or hours of heightened consciousness, a burst of hilarity, a breath of freedom, a little dream, a little edge of ecstasy—or a man will cut his throat in order to feel that he is alive."
"It is not done among the sort of people we associate with," said Cornelia, whom the argument impressed as rather silly.
"Perhaps not," said Willys, "perhaps not. Perhaps you 'escape' in some other fashion. But I say His Excellency is wrong in making light of the poor man's club. It's his safety valve. Take the
