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for which men die. And if you will stand here and talk about love for another ten minutes it is very probable that you will see a man die for it.”

And he fell on guard. Turnbull was busy settling something loose in his elaborate hilt, and the pause was broken by the stranger.

“Suppose I call the police?” he said, with a heated face.

“And deny your most sacred dogma,” said MacIan.

“Dogma!” cried the man, in a sort of dismay. “Oh, we have no dogmas, you know!”

There was another silence, and he said again, airily:

“You know, I think, there’s something in what Shaw teaches about no moral principles being quite fixed. Have you ever read ‘The Quintessence of Ibsenism?’ Of course he went very wrong over the war.”

Turnbull, with a bent, flushed face, was tying up the loose piece of the pommel with string. With the string in his teeth, he said, “Oh, make up your damned mind and clear out!”

“It’s a serious thing,” said the philosopher, shaking his head. “I must be alone and consider