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 the men of another union. What is this restriction but the taboo?

What, indeed? I echoed pleasantly, unable to think of anything more apposite to say. Besides, my attention was wandering. I had discovered Peter, who appeared to be engrossed in the charms of a pretty girl of whom I knew little except that her name was Mahalah Wiggins.

Now the round-faced, cherubic Max Weber rose to speak.

The art consciousness is the great life consciousness, he began in his somewhat high-pitched voice. Its product and the appreciation of its product are the very flower of life. . . . Hutchins Hapgood's companion continued to finger lovingly the polished wooden African figure. . . . Its presence in man is Godliness on earth. It humanizes mankind. Were it spread broadcast it would do away with dry, cold intellectualism, which dead and unfired, always seeks refuge in pretending to be more than it is. . . . Bill Haywood, the giant Arimaspian, was pounding the seat of the brocaded sofa with his great fist. . . . Art or art consciousness is the real proof of genuine human sympathy. It oozes spiritual expression. Were it fostered it would sooner solve the great modern economic problem than any labour propaganda. . . . Helen Westley was yawning, with a great open jaw, which she made no effort to conceal. . . . A lack of this art con-