in perfect confidence, like a bride to
her husband, and with eager and smiling eyes. But he who seeks Death
goes with wild eyes--upbraiding Life for having deceived him; as if
Life ever did anything else! He goes to Death as a last refuge. None
go to Death in deep calm and resignation, as a child goes to the kind
and thoughtful nurse in whose arms he will find beautiful rest.

"It was in this very room I spoke to Lady Helen for the last time.
She understood very well indeed the utter worthlessness of life. How
beautiful was her death! That white still face, with darkness
stealing from the closed lids, a film of light shadow, symbol of
deeper shadow. The unseen but easily imagined hand grasping the
pistol, the unseen but imagined red stain upon the soft texture of
the chemise! I might have loved her. She saw into the heart of
things, and like a reasonable being, which she was, resolved to rid
herself of the burden. We discussed the whole question in the next
room; and I remember I was surprised to find that she was in no wise
deceived by the casual fallacy of the fools who say that the good
times compensate for the bad. Ah! how little they understand!
Pleasure! what is it but the correlative of pain? Nothing short of
man's incomparable stupidity could enable him to distinguish between
success and failure.

"But now I remember she did not die for any profound belief in the
worthlessness of life, but merely on account of a vulgar love affair.
That letter was quite conclusive. It was written from the Alexandra
Hotel. It was a letter breaking it off (strange that any one should
care to break off with Lady Helen!); she stopped to see him, in the
hope of bringing about a reconciliation. Quite a Bank Holiday sort of
incident! She did not deny life; but only that particular form in
which life had come to her. Under such circumstances suicide is
unjustifiable.

"There! I'm breaking into what John Norton would call my
irrepressible levity. But there is little gladness in me. Ennui hunts
me like a hound, loosing me for a time, but finding the scent again
it follows--I struggle--escape--but the hour will come when I shall
escape no more. If Lily had not died, if I had married her, I might
have lived. In truth, I'm not alive, I'm really dead, for I live
without hope, without belief, without desire. Ridiculous as a wife
and children are when you look at them from the philosophical side,
they are necessary if man is to live; if man