You are speaking to him.
BURGE-LUBIN. An intellectual difficulty, old man. Something we don't
understand. Come and help us out.
THE ARCHBISHOP. May I ask how the question has arisen?
BARNABAS. Ah! You begin to smell a rat, do you? You thought yourself
pretty safe. You--
BURGE-LUBIN. Steady, Barnabas. Dont be in a hurry.
_Confucius enters._
THE ARCHBISHOP [_rising_] Good morning, Mr Chief Secretary.
BURGE-LUBIN [_rising in instinctive imitation of the Archbishop_] Honor
us by taking a seat, O sage.
CONFUCIUS. Ceremony is needless. [_He bows to the company, and takes the
chair at the foot of the table_].
_The President and the Archbishop resume their seats._
BURGE-LUBIN. We wish to put a case to you, Confucius. Suppose a man,
instead of conforming to the official estimate of his expectation of
life, were to live for more than two centuries and a half, would the
Accountant General be justified in calling him a thief?
CONFUCIUS. No. He would be justified in calling him a liar.
THE ARCHBISHOP. I think not, Mr Chief Secretary. What do you suppose my
age is?
CONFUCIUS.
Pages:
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307
308
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316