But father was not to be denied.  After a while he said: 

“We have with us a member of the working class.  I am sure that he can present things from a new point of view that will be interesting and refreshing.  I refer to Mr. Everhard.”

The others betrayed a well-mannered interest, and urged Ernest for a statement of his views.  Their attitude toward him was so broadly tolerant and kindly that it was really patronizing.  And I saw that Ernest noted it and was amused.  He looked slowly about him, and I saw the glint of laughter in his eyes.

“I am not versed in the courtesies of ecclesiastical controversy,” he began, and then hesitated with modesty and indecision.

“Go on,” they urged, and Dr. Hammerfield said:  “We do not mind the truth that is in any man.  If it is sincere,” he amended.

“Then you separate sincerity from truth?” Ernest laughed quickly.

Dr. Hammerfield gasped, and managed to answer, “The best of us may be mistaken, young man, the best of us.”

Ernest’s manner changed on the instant.  He became another man.

“All right, then,” he answered; “and let me begin by saying that you are all mistaken.  You know nothing, and worse than nothing, about the working class.  Your sociology is as vicious and worthless as is your method of thinking.”

It was not so much what he said as how he said it.  I roused at the first sound of his voice.  It was as bold as his eyes.  It was a clarion-call that thrilled me.  And the whole table was aroused, shaken alive from monotony and drowsiness.

“What is so dreadfully vicious and worthless in our method of thinking, young man?” Dr. Hammerfield demanded, and already there was something unpleasant in his voice and manner of utterance.

“You are metaphysicians.  You can prove anything by metaphysics; and having done so, every metaphysician can prove every other metaphysician wrong—­to his own satisfaction.  You are anarchists in the realm of thought.  And you are mad cosmos-makers.  Each of you dwells in a cosmos of his own making, created out of his own fancies and desires.  You do not know the real world in which you live, and your thinking has no place in the real world except in so far as it is phenomena of mental aberration.

“Do you know what I was reminded of as I sat at table and listened to you talk and talk?  You reminded me for all the world of the scholastics of the Middle Ages who gravely and learnedly debated the absorbing question of how many angels could dance on the point of a needle.  Why, my dear sirs, you are as remote from the intellectual life of the twentieth century as an Indian medicine-man making incantation in the primeval forest ten thousand years ago.”