Twice during dinner you spoke of an ideal world.

What is an ideal world?
Where is it situated?
You speak of it as of a house whose inhabitants you are well acquainted with, whose key is in your pocket.

Can you show me the key?
I promise not to steal it from you.

O poet!--for you are quite as much of a poet as of a Pole, which is not saying much--" "Nothing remains but to hang me," he interposed, smilingly.
"No, I shall not hang you.

Opinions are free, and there is room enough in the world for all, even idealists.