Mr. Bunsome began to chuckle to himself.  An imperfectly developed sense of humor was asserting itself.

“It’s a funny idea!” he exclaimed.  “The more one thinks of it, the funnier it becomes.  Supposing for a moment—­you all take it so seriously—­supposing for a moment that the food were to turn out to really have in it some of these qualities, what a mess a few days of it would make of the Stock Exchange!  It would mean chaos, sir!”

“It is our hope,” the professor declared, sternly, “our profound hope, that this enterprise of ours will not only bring great fortunes to ourselves but will result in the moral elevation of the whole world.  There are medicines—­patent medicines, too—­which have cured thousands of bodily diseases.  Why should we consider ourselves too sanguine when we hope that ours, the first real attempt to minister to the physical side of morals, may be equally successful?”

Burton stole away.  In the garden he found Edith.  They sat together upon a seat and she allowed her hand to remain in his.

“I never knew father so wrapped up in anything as he is in this new scheme,” she whispered.  “He is even worse than Mr. Bomford.”

Burton shivered a little as he leaned back and closed his eyes.

“It is a nightmare!” he groaned.  “Have you seen all those advertisements of brain foods?  The advertisement columns of our magazines and newspapers are full of them.  Their announcements grin down upon us from every hoarding.  Do you know that we are going to do the same thing?  We are going to contribute our share to the defilement of journalism.  We are going to make a similar appeal to the quack instincts of the credulous.”

She laughed softly at him.

“You foolish person,” she murmured.  “Father has been talking to me about it for hours at a time.  You are taking it for granted that they will not be able to transmit the qualities of the bean into this new food, but father is sure that they will.  Supposing they succeed, why should you object?  Why should not the whole world share in this thing which has come to you?”

“I do not know,” he answered, a little wearily, “and yet nothing seems to be able to alter the way I feel about it.  It seems as though we were committing sacrilege.  Your father and Mr. Bomford, and now this man Bunsome, are entirely engrossed in the commercial side of it.  If it were to be a gift to the world, a real philanthropic enterprise, it would be different.”

“The world wasn’t made for philanthropists, dear,” she reminded him.  “We are only poor human beings, and in our days we have to eat and drink and love.”

“If only Mr. Bomford—­” he began—­

She laid her fingers warningly upon his arm.  Mr. Bomford was coming across the lawn towards them.  “If you go off alone with him,” Burton whispered, “I’ll get back the beans and swamp the enterprise.  I swear it.”

“If you leave us alone together,” she answered softly, “I’ll never speak to you again.”