in a man's handwriting, and
began _Ma chere amie_. The room was now empty, and the clatter of
knives and forks drowned the strains of a waltz.

"You seemed to be very much occupied with that young person. She is
very pretty. I advise you to take care."

"I don't want to marry. I shall never marry. Did you think I was in
love with Miss Young?"

"Well, it looked rather like it."

"No; I swear you are mistaken. I say, if you don't care about dancing
we'll sit down and talk. So you thought I was in love with Miss
Young? How could I be in love with her while you are in the room? You
know, you must have seen, that I have only eyes for you. The last
time I was in Paris I went to see you in the Louvre."

"You say I am like Jean Gougon's statue."

"I think so, so far as a pair of stays allows me to judge."

Lady Helen laughed, but there was no pleasure in her laugh; it was a
hard, bitter laugh.

"If only you knew how indifferent I am! What does it matter whether I
am like the statue or not? I am indifferent to everything."

"But I admire you because you are like the statue."

"What does it matter to me whether you admire me or not? I don't
care."

He had not asked her for the dance; she had sought him of her
free-will. What did it mean?

"Why should I care? What is it to me whether you like me or whether
you hate me? I know very well that three months after my death every
one will have ceased to think of me; three months hence it will be
the same as if I had never lived at all."

"You are well off; you have talent and beauty. What more do you
want?"

"The world cannot give me happiness. You find happiness in your own
heart, not in worldly possessions.... I am a pessimist. I recognize
that life is a miserable thing--not only a miserable thing, but a
useless thing. We can do no good; there is no good to be done; and
life has no advantage except that we can put it off when we will.
Schopenhauer is wrong when he asserts that suicide is no solution of
the evil; so far as the individual is concerned suicide is a perfect
solution, and were the race to cease to-morrow, nature would
instantly choose another type and force it into consciousness. Until
this earth resolves itself to ice or cinder, matter will never cease
to know itself."

"My dear," said Lewis Seymour, who entered the room at that moment,
"I am feeling very tired; I think I shall go home, but do not mind
me. I will take a hansom--you can have your brou