see, myself, that civilised people are one whit the better in all
these respects than the uncivilised barbarian. They pull together
better, that's all; but war, bloodshed, superstition, fetich-
worship, religious rites, castes, class distinctions, sex taboos,
restrictions on freedom of thought, on freedom of action, on
freedom of speech, on freedom of knowledge, are just as common in
their midst as among the utterly uncivilised."

"Then what you yourself aim at," Frida said, looking hard at him,
for he spoke very earnestly--"what you yourself aim at is--?"

Bertram's eyes came back to solid earth with a bound.

"Oh, what we at home aim at," he said, smiling that sweet, soft
smile of his that so captivated Frida, "is not mere civilisation
(though, of course, we value that too, in its meet degree, because
without civilisation and co-operation no great thing is possible),
but rationality and tenderness. We think reason the first good--to
recognise truly your own place in the universe; to hold your head
up like a man, before the face of high heaven, afraid of no ghosts
or fetiches or phantoms; to understand that wise and right and
unselfish actions are the great requisites in life, not the service
of non-existent and misshapen creatures of the human imagination.
Knowledge of facts, knowledge of nature, knowledge of the true
aspects of the world we live in,--these seem to us of first
importance. After that, we prize next reasonable and reasoning
goodness; for mere rule-of-thumb goodness, which comes by rote, and
might so easily degenerate into formalism or superstition, has no
honour among us, but rather the contrary. If any one were to say
with us (after he had passed his first infancy) that he always did