money. As a young man he had hard times, and when his invention
succeeded, it put him off balance a bit. I've often thought he had a
crazy look in his eye. He may have thrown away a lot of his money in
mad tricks: who knows?"

"That's the end the human race will come to," said Hilliard. "It'll be
driven mad and killed off by machinery. Before long there'll be
machines for washing and dressing people--machines for feeding
them--machines for----"

His wrathful imagination led him to grotesque ideas which ended in
laughter.

"Well, I have a year or two before me. I'll know what enjoyment means.
And afterwards----"

"Yes; what afterwards?"

"I don't know. I may choose to come back; I may prefer to make an end.
Impossible to foresee my state of mind after living humanly for a year
or two. And what shall _you_ do if you come in for a lot of money?"

"It's not likely to be more than a few thousands," replied Narramore.
"And the chances are I shall go on in the old way. What's the good of a
few thousands? I haven't the energy to go off and enjoy myself in your
fashion. One of these days I may think of getting married, and
marriage, you know, is devilish expensive. I should like to have three
or four thousand a year; you can't start housekeeping on less, if
you're not to be bored to death with worries. Perhaps I may get a
partnership in our house. I began life in the brass bedstead line, and
I may as well stick to brass bedsteads to the end the demand isn't
likely to fall off. Please fill my glass again."

Hilliard, the while, had tossed off his second tumbler. He began to
talk at random.

"I shall go to London first of all. I may go abroad. Reckon a pound a
day. Three hundred and--how many days are there in a year? Three
hundred and sixty-five. That doesn't allow me two years. I want two
years of life. Half a sovereign a day, then. One can do a good deal
with half a sovereign a day--don't you think?"

"Not very much, if you're particular about your wine."

"Wine doesn't matter. Honest ale and Scotch whisky will serve well
enough. Understand me; I'm not going in for debauchery, and I'm not
going to play the third-rate swell. There's no enjoyment in making a
beast of oneself, and none for me in strutting about the streets like
an animated figure out of a tailor's window. I want to know the taste
of free life, human life. I want to forget that I ever sat at a desk,
drawing to scale--drawing damned machines. I want t