selves in these vivid times? What contribution to a world at war had mere thinkers to make? Were not all the Knights and Barons of the times conservers of flesh, or producers of tin? Were not the rewards for those who do, not for those who merely say what ought to be done? Nay, more, were not Bacon and Tin and other commodities the very basis on which the higher life is sustained? Are not the Knights and Barons, who manipulate them, yea, and the vacuum-sweeper gentlemen, the real dictators of the world, the actuating forces? It was these assailing questions, this revelation that staggered me, that rendered me dumb.
But the seeker after light who still leaned over the padded chair, regarding me with what, to my heated imagination, appeared to be an ever-increasing sternness of gaze, improved the opportunity by continuing his remarks.
"I had a conversation with Professor Grantly last week. Perhaps you know him—lives up on the hill—at least I think the name was Grantly. I gave a demonstration there, but he said he couldn't afford to buy. His study walls were lined with books—literally
