"Never," I protested warmly, "unless someone else pays for it, at least. It doesn't run to large and varied lunches."
"Then he plays Bridge all the afternoon to get an appetite for a large and varied dinner."
I contented myself with a short, sardonic laugh—a very good sardonic laugh.
"Then he goes to bed and sleeps like a log. What a life—a hog's life. What good are you to Humanity?"
"You forget I'm a socialist," I said brightly.
"Talk—rubbishly talk about Utopias," said Chelubai.
"Not at all. I'm an honest gas-and-water socialist," I said with unbroken calm. "But what are you driving at? What's the conclusion?"
"The conclusion is that we're wastrels—cumbering the ground. Anyone who cleared us off the earth would be doing Humanity a service," said Chelubai solemnly.
"Well, to oblige you, we'll let it go at that. We're useless cells in the social organism. What of it? What do you want us to do? Or have you only been letting off steam to get a better appetite for a large and varied dinner?" said I.
"We must change all this," said Chelubai solemnly; and he sat down.
"Change away," said I. "But do not demand anything Spartan or Tolstoyan from me and Bot-
