 I oughtn't to say that--but the Wilcoxes are on the wrong tack surely.  Or perhaps it isn't their fault.  Perhaps the little thing that says 'I' is missing out of the middle of their heads, and then it's a waste of time to blame them.  There's a nightmare of a theory that says a special race is being born which will rule the rest of us in the future just because it lacks the little thing that says 'I.' Had you heard that?"
    "I get no time for reading."
    "Had you thought it, then?  That there are two kinds of people--our kind, who live straight from the middle of their heads, and the other kind who can't, because their heads have no middle?  They can't say 'I.' They aren't in fact, and so they're supermen.  Pierpont Morgan has never said 'I' in his life."
    Leonard roused himself.  If his benefactress wanted intellectual conversation, she must have it.  She was more important than his ruined past.  "I never got on to Nietzsche," he said.  "But I always understood that those supermen were rather what you may call egoists."
    "Oh, no, that's wrong," replied Helen.  "No superman ever said 'I want,' because 'I want' must lead to the question, 'Who am I?' and so to Pity and to Justice.  He only says 'want.' 'Want Europe,' if he's Napoleon; 'want wives,' if he's Bluebeard; 'want Botticelli,' if he's Pierpont Morgan.  Never the 'I'; and if you could pierce through him, you'd find panic and emptiness in the middle."
    Leonard was silent for a moment.  Then he said: "May I take it, Miss Schlegel, that you and I are both the sort that say 'I'?"
    "Of course."
    "And your sister too?"
    "Of course," repeated Helen, a little sharply.  She was annoyed with Margaret, but did not want her discussed.  "All presentable people say 'I.'"
    "But Mr. Wilcox--he is not perhaps--"
    "I don't know that it's any good discussing Mr. Wilcox either."
    "Quite so, quite so," he agreed.  Helen asked herself why she had snubbed him
