It was Frank’s habit after his work at the hospital to have tea with Miss Ley, but when, that afternoon, he arrived at Old Queen Street she was surprised at the pallor of his face, from which shone with unnatural brilliancy the dark eyes. They seemed larger than ever she had seen them, and his harassed look told her that he was suffering: the square jaw was set firmly, as though with strong deliberation he held himself in hand.

“You’re so late,” she said. “I thought you wouldn’t come.”

“I’m very tired,” he answered, in a strained voice.

She poured out tea, and while he ate and drank, to give him opportunity to collect himself, read the evening paper. With admirable insight, she, alone of his friends, had divined Frank’s emotional temper; and though never hinting at the knowledge, for she was aware it humiliated him to have so little self-control, could in consequence handle him with very subtle skill. Presently fetching his tobacco, for they sat in the library, he lit his pipe; he blew the smoke from his mouth in heavy clouds.

“Is it very comforting?” asked Miss Ley, smiling.

“Very!”

Waiting till he was ready to speak, she returned to her news-sheet, and though she felt his eyes rest curiously upon her, took no notice.

“I wish to goodness you’d put that paper down,” he cried at last irritably.

With a faint smile she did as he suggested.

“Have you had a very hard day, Frank?”

“Oh, it was awful!” he answered. “I don’t know why, but it all seemed to have a greater meaning for me than ever before. I couldn’t get out of my head the utter misery of that poor boy when I told him his chest was affected.”

“I wish the whole thing weren’t so ordinary,” murmured Miss Ley. “The consumptive poet and the devoted old maid! It’s so fearfully hackneyed. But the gods have no originality; they always make their æsthetic effects by confounding the tragic and the commonplace. . . . I suppose you’re quite certain he has phthisis?”

“I found bacilli in the sputum. Where are they both now?”

“Bella took him back to Tercanbury, and I’ve promised to follow on Monday. She’s going to marry the boy!”

“What!” cried Frank.

“She wants to take him abroad. Don’t you think if he winters in the South Nature will have some chance with him?”

“In nine cases out of ten Nature doesn’t want to cure a man; she wants to put him in his coffin.”

Rising from his chair, Frank walked restlessly up and down the room. On a sudden he stopped short in front of Miss Ley.

“D’you remember your friend Mr. Farley telling us the other day that pain ennobles a man? I should like to conduct him through the wards of a hospital.”

“I have no doubt that when he has a tooth drawn Mr. Farley takes care that gas should be properly administered.”

“I suppose divines can only justify pain by ascribing to it elevation of character,” cried Frank savagely. “If they weren’t so ignorant they’d know it requires no justification. You might as well assert that a danger-signal elevates a train; for, after all, pain is nothing more than an indication by the nerves that the organism is in circumstances hurtful to it.”

“Don’t lecture me, Frank, there’s a dear!” murmured Miss Ley mildly.

“But if that man had seen as much pain as I have he’d know that it doesn’t refine; it brutalizes. It makes, people self-absorbed and selfish—you can’t imagine the frightful egoism of physical suffering—querulous, impatient, unjust, greedy. I could name a score of petty vices that it engenders, but not a single virtue. . . . Oh, Miss Ley, when I look at all the misery of the world I am so thankful I don’t believe in God.”

As though seeking to break through the iron bars of the flesh, like a wild beast unquietly he paced the room.

“For years I’ve toiled night and day to distinguish truth from falsehood; I want to be clear about my actions, I want to walk with sure feet; but I find myself in a labyrinth of quicksands. I can see no meaning in the world, and sometimes I despair; it seems as senseless as a madman’s dream. After all, what does it tend to, the effort and the struggle, hope, love, success, failure, birth, death? Man emerged from savagery merely because he was fiercer than the tiger and more cunning than the ape; and nothing seems to me less probable than that humanity advances to any ideal condition. We believe in progress, but progress is nothing but change!”

“I confess,” interrupted Miss Ley, “that I sometimes ask myself how it benefits the Japanese that they have assumed the tall-hat and the trousers of Western civilization. I wonder if the Malays in their forests or the Kanakas on their islands have cause vastly to envy the London slummer.”

“What does it all end in?” pursued Frank, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to listen, “Where is the use of it? For all my labour I haven’t the shadow of an answer. And even yet I don’t know what is good and what is evil, what is high and what is low; I don’t even know if the words have any sense in them. Sometimes men seem to me cripples ever seeking to hide their deformity, huddled in a stuffy room, lit by one smoky taper; and they crowd together to keep warm, and they tremble at every unexpected sound. And d’you think in the course of evolution it was the best and noblest who survived to propagate their species? It was merely the shrewd, the hard, and the strong.”

“It would bore me dreadfully to be so strenuous, dear Frank,” answered Miss Ley, with a slight shrug of the shoulders. “It was a wise man who said that, with regard to the universe, few questions could be asked and none could be answered. In the end we all resign ourselves to the fact, and we find it possible to eat our dinner with no less satisfaction because at the back of our minds stands continually a discreet mark of interrogation. For my part, I think there is as little justification for ascribing an end to the existence of man as there was for the supposition of the Middle Ages, (pardon me if I seem erudite,) that the heavenly bodies moved in circles because that was the most perfect figure; but I assure you that my night’s rest is not in the least impaired. I, too, went through a stormy period in my youth, and if you’ll promise not to think me tedious I’ll tell you about it.”

“Please do,” said Frank.

He sat down, fixing upon her his piercing eyes, and Miss Ley, as though she had given the matter frequent thought, spoke fluently, with ordered ideas and balanced phrase.

“You know, I was reared on the strictest Evangelical principles to believe certain dogmas on pain of eternal damnation, but at twenty, why I scarcely can tell, all I had learnt fell away from me. Faith presumably is a matter of temperament; good-will has nothing to do with it, and when I look back on my ignorance I am astounded that such ill-considered reasons sufficed to destroy the prejudices of so many years. I was certain then that no God existed; but now I make a point of being certain of nothing: it saves trouble. Besides, each time you make up your mind you rob yourself of a subject for cogitation. But theoretically I cannot help thinking that for a quite reasonable view of life it is necessary to be convinced that no immortality of the soul exists.”

“How can a man lead his life uniformly on the earth if he is disturbed by the thought of another life to come?” broke in Frank eagerly. “God is a force throwing man’s centre of gravity out of his own body.”

“We agreed, Frank, that I was to expound my views,” answered Miss Ley, with some asperity, for interruption she never suffered easily.

“Forgive me,” said Frank, smiling.

“But I agree that your remark, though ill-timed, was not without point,” she proceeded deliberately. “When man is assured that the insignificant planet on which he lives, and the time, are everything so far as he is individually concerned, he can look about him and order himself according to the surroundings. He is a chess-player with his definite number of pieces, capable of definite moves; and none asks why the castle must run straight, but the bishop obliquely. These things are to be accepted, and with these rules, careless of what may befall when the game is finished, the wise man plays—not to win, for that is impossible, but to make a good fight of it. And if he is wise indeed he will never forget that, after all, it is but a game, and therefore not to be taken too seriously.”

Miss Ley paused, thinking it high time to give Frank opportunity for some remark, but since he remained silent she went on slowly.

“I think the most valuable thing I have learnt in my life is that there is so much to say on both sides of every question that there is little to choose between them. It has made me tolerant, so that I can listen with equal interest to you and to my cousin Algernon. After all, how can I tell whether Truth has one shape only, or many? In how many errors does she linger with a smiling face and insufficient raiment; in what contrary and irreconcilable places does she dwell, more wilful than April winds, more whimsical than the Will-o-the-wisp! My art and science is to live. It is an argument of weak men to say that all things are vanity because the pleasure of them is ephemeral: it may console the beggar to look upon the tomb of kings, but then he must be a fool as well. The pleasures of life are illusion, but when pessimists complain that human delights are negligible because they are unreal, they talk absurdly; for reality none knows, and few care about: our only interest is with illusion. How foolish is it to say that the mirage in the desert is not beautiful merely because it is an atmospheric effect!”

“Is life, then, nothing but a voyage which a man takes, bound nowhither and tossed perpetually upon a treacherous sea?”

“Not quite. Storms don’t rage continually, nor is the wind for ever boisterous: sometimes it blows fair and strong, so that the ship leaps forward with animal delight; the mariner exults in his skilful power and in the joy of the limitless horizon. Sometimes the sea is placid like a sleeping youth, and the scented air, balmy and fresh, fills the heart with lazy pleasure. The ocean has its countless mysteries, its thoughts and manifold emotions. Why on earth should you not look upon the passage as a pleasure-trip, whereon the rough weather must necessarily be taken with the smooth—looking regretlessly towards the end, but joyful even amid hurricane or gale in the recollection of happy, easy days? Why not abandon life, saying: I have had evil fortune and good, and the pains were compensated by the pleasures; and though my journey, with all its perils, has led me nowhither, though I return tired and old to the port whence with my many hopes I started, I am content to have lived.”

“And so, for all your experience, your study, and your thought, you’ve found absolutely no meaning,” cried Frank, profoundly discouraged.

“I invented a meaning of sorts; like a critic explaining a symbolical picture, or a school-boy construing a passage he doesn’t at all understand, I at least made the words hang sensibly together. I aimed at happiness, and I think, on the whole, I’ve found it. I lived according to my instincts, and sought every emotion that my senses offered; I turned away deliberately from what was ugly and tedious, fixing my eyes with all my soul on Beauty—seen, I hope, with a discreet appreciation of the Ridiculous. I never troubled myself much with current notions of good and evil, for I knew they were merely relative, but strove always to order my life so that to my eyes at least it should form a graceful pattern on the dark inane.”

Miss Ley stopped, and a whimsical smile flickered across her face.

“But I should tell you that, like Mr. Shandy, who was so long about his treatise on the education of his son that by the time it was finished Tristram’s growth made it useless, I did not formulate my philosophy till it was too late to set much of it in practice.”

“Dinner is served, madam,” said the butler, coming into the room.

“By Jove!” cried Frank, springing up, “I had no idea it was so late.”

“But you’re going to stay? I think you’ll find a place laid for you.”

“I’ve ordered my dinner at home.”

“I’m sure it won’t be so good as mine.”

“I never saw anyone quite so conceited as you about the excellence of your cook, Miss Ley.”

“Just as it is far easier for a man to be a philosopher than a gentleman, my dear, it is less difficult to cultivate a Christian disposition than good cooking.”

They went downstairs, and Miss Ley ordered a bottle of Miss Dwarris’ champagne to be opened. She had a cynical belief in the efficacy of a square meal to relieve most spiritual torments; but besides, heroically—for she was an indolent woman—took pains to amuse her guest. She talked of many things, gaily and tenderly, while Frank, the dinner finished, smoked innumerable pipes. At last Big Ben struck twelve, and cheerful now, resigned to philosophic doubt, he rose to his feet. Frank took both Miss Ley’s hands.

“You’re a jewel of a woman. I was quite wretched when I came, and you’ve put new life into me.”

“Not I!” she cried. “The chocolate souffle and the champagne. I have always observed that the human soul is peculiarly susceptible to the culinary art. Personally, I never feel so spiritual as when I’ve slightly overeaten myself. I wish you wouldn’t squeeze my hands.”

“You’re the only woman I know who’s as interesting to talk to as a man.”

“Faith, and I believe if I were twenty years younger the child would propose to me!”

“You have only to say the word, and I’ll lead you to the altar.”

“I’m a proud woman this day to get an offer of marriage in my fifty-seventh year. But where, my dear, if I married you, would you go to have tea in the afternoon?”

Frank laughed, but in his voice when he answered there was something very like a sob.

“You’re a dear, kind thing. And I’m sure I shall never be half so devoted to any other woman as I am to you.”

The emotion must have been catching, for Miss Ley’s tones had not their usual cold steadiness.

“Don’t be a drivelling idiot, my dear!” she answered, and when the door was closed behind him added to herself, half in irritation: “Bless the boy, I wish I were his mother.”