"A theory that is not dangerous," Orr retorted, "can hardly be called a theory at all."
With superior tact Sylvia intervened. "But what is anarchy, Melanchthon? Socialism I know about, but anarchy—?"
"To put it vulgarly, I drink and you pay."
"But suppose I am an anarchist?"
"Then Sherry pays."
"But supposing he is an anarchist?"
"Then there is a row. And there will be one. The country is drifting that way. It will, I think, be bloody, but I think, too, it will be brief. Anarchists, you know, maintain that of all prejudices capital and matrimony are the stupidest. What they demand is the free circulation of money and women. As a nation, we are great at entertaining, but we will never entertain that."
"Why, then, did you not let the beggar rot where he was?" Annandale swiftly and severely inquired.
"Oh, you know, if I had not got him out someone else would have, and I thought it better that the circulation of money should proceed directly from his pocket to mine."
"You haven't any stupid prejudices yourself, that's clear," said Annandale, helping himself as he spoke to more Scotch. "Sylvia," he continued, "if I am ever up for murder I will retain Melanchthon Orr."