always breakfasted late), and had overheard the last remark. He was a
lecturer in Biology at Cambridge, rather distinguished in that field,
and an enthusiastic believer in the capacity of the scientific method
to solve all problems.

"I was saying," Leslie repeated in answer to his question, "that
science has nothing to do with the Good."

"So much the worse for the Good," rejoined Wilson, "if indeed that be
true."

"But you, I suppose, would never admit that it is," I interposed. I
was anxious to hear what he had to say, though at the same time I was
desirous to avoid a discussion between him and Leslie, for their types
of mind and habits of thought were so radically opposed that it was
as idle for them to engage in debate as for two bishops of opposite
colour to attempt to capture one another upon a chessboard. He
answered readily enough to my challenge.

"I think," he said, "that there is only one method of knowledge, and
that is the method we call scientific."

"But do you think there is any knowledge of Good at all, even by that
method? or that there is nothing but erroneous opinions?"

"I think," he replied, "that there is a possibility of knowledge, but
only if we abjure dialectics. Here, as everywhere, the only safe guide
is the actual concrete operation of Nature."

"How do you mean?" asked Leslie, his voice vibrating with latent