He swung round and faced me to say, "Don't you see that wisdom follows from power. The helpless savage has no wisdom. Wisdom arises only in civilization, and civilization is an expression of economic production." Taking a final glance round the room, he opened the door, adding, "Of course there's a time lag. And so long as our affairs are controlled by ignorant politicians there's a real danger that the wisdom inherent in man's new powers will be frustrated, and the species will destroy itself. Atomic power is a dangerous toy."

I said we must pursue the matter over dinner; and I invited the girl to accompany us. She glanced quickly at her colleague, then refused, excusing herself on the plea that she had work to do at home. And so, after thanks and adieus, I took the young man alone to a restaurant.

*****

My new friend sipped his sherry with serious attention, savouring, analysing, registering the complex experience. Perhaps he noticed that I was amused by his earnestness, for presently he said, "It is wonderful how even the minor experiences repay observation." "Yes," I answered, "but if one attends too closely to some particular field of the universe one has no attention for others." Sighing, he replied, "True indeed! I shall never be an expert wine taster." "The great thing," I suggested, "is to be sure that one has acquaintance with all the main kinds of fields. Specialism is inevitable; but without a comprehensive background it leads to disaster. "Once more the wary glance was shot at me. But he said only, "Of course! And the fields of science are now so many and complex that the scientific background becomes too huge to grasp. However, matters are simplified if one can rule out some great fields as bogus. It is fairly safe to ignore phrenology, astrology, primitive I magic, alchemy, religious doctrine, spiritualism and so on; because all that is evidential in them can be satisfactorily incorporated in one or other of the ever-expanding fields of reliable science."

I sipped the last of my sherry, torn between sympathy and revulsion for this hard young mind. I said, "Surely there are some fields in which science is inadequate, some spheres in which, though it can give a very plausible and up to a point useful analysis, yet one can't help feeling that it misses the essence of the matter." "Such as?'' "Well, art, moral experience, personal love and what I am tempted to call the living core of religious experience."

"How you cling," he said, "to your illusions! Presumably you don't claim that in the exquisite, almost mystical, bliss of drinking this sherry one must suppose some highfalutin factor that science cannot in principle account for. Then why must you suppose it in art and love and so on?" Laughing, I answered, "Of course in all experience there is something beyond the reach of science, namely the complete mystery of experience itself; but in some experiences the inadequacy of science is more flagrant than in others. You see, science can approximately describe your sherry-drinking experience in terms of sensation; but in art, love and the core of religion there are factors which contemporary science can neither explain nor adequately describe." Holding his sherry to the light and peering into it with terrier eagerness, he said, "I claim that it does describe and explain the one sort of experience as effectively as the other. What it excludes is sheer illusion and superstition. Wine, women and song (meaning all art) and religious excitement can all be explained in terms of innate impulses and Pavlov's great principle of conditioning." Savouring his sherry, he added, "And give me wine, rather than women, because it doesn't make irrational claims on one as they do; and the irrational, sentimental factor in oneself does not stupidly side with it, against one's better judgment." When he had chased the last fragrance of his sherry round his mouth, his lips settled into a pout. Feeling my way, I remarked, "Claims that are irrational to the fundamentally unattached individual may be quite rational where there is genuine love." He expostulated, "Love! Another of those misleading and emotive words! If I love a woman, it is because my personality needs intercourse with hers for its fuller expression. Each is food to the other. Neither is really under any sort of obligation to the other, fundamentally, any more than I am under obligation to this soup, or responsible to see that it shall express itself fully." "But surely," I said, "you don't suppose that love is just that!" He answered flatly, "Fundamentally, it is just that. But of course it gets overlaid by muddleheaded sentimentality. And of course it is a cooperative affair, and it won't work unless each party shows a good deal of consideration for the other. The profit must be mutual. Further, we have social impulses, and up to a point each individual needs to regard the other's interests, and the interests of the little group of two. But fundamentally, each remains an independent and self-interested individual. When a woman claims, as she is apt to do, that each should surrender individuality wholly to the other, that both should drown in the common life, she claims something that it would be quite irrational to give. But the hell of it all is that something in oneself takes sides with her, and in maintaining one's independence one feels inadequate and guilty."

We took our soup in silence. I thought of the love in my own life, of us, of you and me. How easily and plausibly our whole relationship could be stated in his language! And what rare good fortune that each of us should have turned out in the long run to be such life-giving food to the other! In excess, no doubt, we surfeit each other; and there are elements in each that the other can never digest.