had time to recover from my shock of surprise——or to awake out of my momentary 'eerie' condition, whichever it was.

When things around me seemed once more to be real, Arthur was saying "I'm afraid there's no help for it: they must be finite in number."

"I should be sorry to have to believe it," said Lady Muriel. "Yet, when one comes to think of it, there are no new melodies, now-a-days. What people talk of as 'the last new song' always recalls to me some tune I've known as a child!"

"The day must come——if the world lasts long enough——" said Arthur, "when every possible tune will have been composed——every possible pun perpetrated——" (Lady Muriel wrung her hands, like a tragedy-queen) "and, worse than that, every possible book written! For the number of words is finite."

"It'll make very little difference to the authors." I suggested. "Instead of saying 'what book shall I write?' an author will ask himself 'which book shall I write?' A mere verbal distinction!"