“Well, I don’t know.  It’s too easy for sick or worthless people to survive nowadays.  They are clotting up our square miles very fast.  Philanthropists don’t seem to remember that you can beget children a great deal faster than you can educate them; and at this rate I believe universal suffrage will kill us off before our time.”

“Do not believe it!  We are going to find out that universal suffrage is like the appendix—­useful at an early stage of the race’s evolution but to-day merely a threat to life.”

He thought this over.  “But a surgical operation is pretty serious, you know.”

“It’ll be done by absorption.  Why, you’ve begun it yourselves, and so has Massachusetts.  The appendix will be removed, black and white—­and I shouldn’t much fear surgery.  We’re not nearly civilized enough yet to have lost the power Of recuperation, and in spite of our express-train speed, I doubt if we shall travel from crudity to rottenness without a pause at maturity.”

“That is the old, old story,” he said.

“Yes; is there anything new under the sun?”

He was gloomy.  “Nothing, I suppose.”  Then the gloom lightened.  “Nothing new under the sun—­except the fashionable families of Newport!”

This again brought us from the clouds of speculation down to Worship Street, where we were walking toward South Place.  It also unexpectedly furnished me with the means to lead back our talk so gently, without a jolt or a jerk, to my moral and the delicate topic of matrimony from which he had dodged away, that he never awoke to what was coming until it had come.  He began pointing out, as we passed them, certain houses which were now, or had at some period been, the dwellings of his many relatives:  “My cousin Julia So-and-so lives there,” he would say; or, “My great-uncle, known as Regent Tom, owned that before the War”; and once, “The Rev. Joseph Priedieu, my great-grandfather, built that house to marry his fifth wife in, but the grave claimed him first.”

So I asked him a riddle.  “What is the difference between Kings Port and Newport?”

This he, of course, gave up.

“Here you are all connected by marriage, and there they are all connected by divorce.”

“That’s true!” he cried, “that’s very true.  I met the most embarrassingly cater-cornered families.”

“Oh, they weren’t embarrassed!” I interjected.

“No, but I was,” said John.

“And you told me you weren’t innocent!” I exclaimed.  “They are going to institute a divorce march,” I continued. “‘Lohengrin’ or ’Midsummer-Night’s Dream’ played backward.  They have not settled which it is to be taught in the nursery with the other kindergarten melodies.”

He was still unsuspectingly diverted; and we walked along until we turned in the direction of my boarding-house.

“Did you ever notice,” I now said, “what a perpetual allegory ‘Midsummer-Night’s Dream’ contains?”