Now the biggest Fetish of all was tottering on its foolish throne. The last idol in the temples of Dagon, the houses of Rimmon and the sacred groves was attacked.
The great "Procreation Fetish" remained.
Were drunkards to be allowed to have children without State restriction, or were they not?
That was the question which some of the acutest and most altruistic minds of the English speaking races were about to meet and discuss this afternoon.
Dr. Morton Sims drove down to the Edward Hall a little after two o'clock.
The important conference was to begin at three, but the doctor had various matters to arrange first and he was in a slightly nervous and depressed state.
It was a grey day and a sharp East wind was blowing. People in the streets wore furs and heavy coats; London seemed excessively cheerless.
It was but rarely that Morton Sims felt as he did as this moment. But the day, or probably (as he thought) a recent spell of over-work, took the pith out of him.
"It is difficult to avoid doing too much—for a man in my position," he thought. "Life is so short and there is such an infinity of work. Oh, that I could see England in a fair way to become sober before I die! Still I must go on hard. 'Il faut cultiver notre jardin.'"