sness, but it dearly loves self-forgetfulness, for that
implies a compliment to itself.

Afterwards, in Cardillac's handsome and over-careful rooms, there was
an attempt at depth. The set--Lawrence, Galleon, Craven and five or six
more--never thought about Life unless drink drove them to do so, and
drink drove them to-night. A long, thin man, Williamson by name, with a
half-Blue for racquets and a pensive manner, had a favourite formula on
these occasions: "But think of a rabbit now . . ." only conveying by the
remark that here was a proof of God's supreme, astounding carelessness.
"You shoot it, you know, without turning a hair (no joke, you rotter),
and it breeds millions a week . . . and--does it think about it, that's
what I want to know? Where's its soul?

"Hasn't got a soul. . . ."

"Well, what _is_ the soul, anyway?"

There you are-the thing's properly started, and the more the set drinks
the vaguer it gets until finally it goes happily to bed and wakes with a
headache and a healthy opinion that "Religion and that sort of stuff is
rot" in the morning. That is precisely as far as intellect ever ventured
in Saul's. There may have been quaint obscure fellows who sported their
oaks every night and talked cleverly on ginger-beer, but they were
not admitted as part of the scheme of things. . . . Saulines, to quote
Lawrence, "are _not_ clever."

They were not especially clever to-night, thought Olva, as he sat in the
shadow away from the light of the fire and watched them sitting back in
enormous armchairs, with their legs stretched out, blowing wreaths of
smoke into the air, drinking whiskies and sodas . . . no, not clever.

Craven, the shadows blacker than ever under his eyes, was on the
opposite side of the room from Olva. He sat with his head down and was
silent.

"Think of a rabbit now," said Williamson.

"I suppose," said Galleon, who was not gifted, "that they're happy
enough."

"Yes, but what do they _make_ of it all?"

At this moment Craven suddenly burst in with "Where's Carfax?"

This question was felt by every one to be tactless. Elaborately,
with great care and some considerable effort, Carfax had been
forgotten--forgotten, it seemed, by every one save Craven. He had been
forgotten because his death did not belong to the Cambridge order of
things, because it raised unpleasant ideas, and made one morbid and
neurotic. It had, in fact, nothing in common with cold baths, marmalade,
rugby football,