Burton shivered.

“You must not think of such a thing!” he said, harshly.

Mr. Bunsome was disappointed.

“A picture of yourself as you were as an auctioneer’s clerk,” he remarked, thoughtfully,—­“a little gay in the costume, perhaps, rakish-looking hat and tie, you know, and that sort of thing, leaning over the bar, say, of a public-house—­and a picture of yourself as you are now, writing in a library one of those little articles of yours—­the two together, now, one each side, would have a distinct and convincing effect.”

Burton rose abruptly to his feet.

“These details,” he said, “I must leave to Mr. Cowper.  You have the beans.  I have done my share.”

The professor caught hold of his arm.

“Sit down, my dear fellow—­sit down,” he begged.  “We have not finished our discussion.  The whole subject is most engrossing.  We cannot have you hurrying away.  Mr. Bunsome’s suggestion is, of course, hideously Philistine, but, after all, we want the world to know the truth.”

“But the truth about me,” Burton protested, “may not be the truth about this food.  How do you know that you can reproduce the beans at all in an artificial manner?”

“Science, my young friend—­science,” the professor murmured.  “I tell you that the problem is already nearly solved.”

“Supposing you do solve it,” Burton continued, “supposing you do produce a food which will have the same effect as the beans, do you realize what you are doing?  You will create a revolution.  You will break up life-long friendships, you will revolutionize business, you will swamp the divorce courts, you will destroy the whole fabric of social life for at least a generation.  Truth is the most glorious thing which the brain of man ever conceived, but I myself have had some experience of the strange position one occupies who has come under its absolutely compelling influence.  The world as it is run to-day could never exist for a week without its leaven of lies.”

Mr. Bunsome looked mystified.  The professor, however, inclined his head sympathetically.

“It is my intention,” he remarked, “in drafting my final prescription, that the action of the food shall not be so violent.  If the quantities are less strenuously mixed, the food, as you can surmise, will be so much the milder.  A gentle preference for truth, a dawning appreciation of beauty, a gradual withdrawal from the grosser things of life—­these may, perhaps, be conceived after a week’s trial of the food.  Then a regular course of it—­say for six months or so—­would build up these tendencies till they became a part of character.  The change, as you see, would not be too sudden.  That is my idea, Bomford.  We have not heard much from you this evening.  What do you think?”

“I agree with you entirely, professor,” Mr. Bomford pronounced.  “For many reasons it will be as well, I think, to render the food a little less violent in its effects.”