ng that the
world may not end as it began, in blood. But she heeds him not, and
to save the generations he dashes her on the rocks.

"Man began in bloodshed, in bloodshed he has ended.

"Standing against the last tinge of purple, he gazes for a last time
upon the magnificence of a virgin world, seeing the tawny forms of
lions in the shadows, watching them drinking at the stream."

"Adam and Eve at the end of the world," said Drake. "A very pretty
subject; but I distinctly object to an Eve with black hair. Eve and
golden hair have ever been considered inseparable things."

"That's true," said Platt; "the moment my missis went wrong her hair
turned yellow."

Mike joined in the jocularity, but at the first pause he asked Escott
what he thought of his poem.

"I have only one fault to find. Does not the _denouement_ seem too
violent? Would it not be better if the man were to succeed in
escaping from her, and then vexed with scruples to return and find
her dead? What splendid lamentations over the body of the last
woman!--and as the man wanders beneath the waxing and waning moon he
hears nature lamenting the last woman. Mountains, rocks, forests,
speak to him only of her."

"Yes, that would do.... But no--what am I saying? Such a conclusion
would be in exact contradiction to the philosophy of my poem. For it
is man's natural and inveterate stupidity (Schopenhauer calls it
Will) that forces man to live and continue his species. Reason is the
opposing force. As time goes on reason becomes more and more
complete, until at last it turns upon the will and denies it, like
the scorpion, which, if surrounded by a ring of fire, will turn and
sting itself to death. Were the man to escape, and returning find the
woman dead, it would not be reason but accident which put an end to
this ridiculous world."

Seeing that attention was withdrawn from him Drake filled his pockets
with cigarettes, split a soda with Platt, and seized upon the
entrance of half a dozen young men as an excuse for ceasing to write
paragraphs. Although it had only struck six they were all in evening
dress. They were under thirty, and in them elegance and dissipation
were equally evident. Lord Muchross, a clean-shaven Johnnie, walked
at the head of the gang, assuming by virtue of his greater volubility
a sort of headship. Dicky, the driver, a stout commoner, spoke of
drink; and a languid blonde, Lord Snowdown, leaned against the
chimney-piece displaying a th