do a thing as mean as he had done. After all, philosophy or no
philosophy, didn't a fine old citizen like Jotham, honest, upright,
genuine in his moral point of view and his observance of the golden
rule, didn't he deserve better from a man whom he so sincerely admired?
Jotham had been so nice to him. Their conversations together were so
kindly and sympathetic. Eugene felt that Jotham believed him to be an
honest man. He knew he had that appearance. He was frank, genial,
considerate, not willing to condemn anyone--but this sex question--that
was where he was weak. And was not the whole world keyed to that? Did
not the decencies and the sanities of life depend on right moral
conduct? Was not the world dependent on how the homes were run? How
could anyone be good if his mother and father had not been good before
him? How could the children of the world expect to be anything if people
rushed here and there holding illicit relations? Take his sister Myrtle,
now--would he have wanted her rifled in this manner? In the face of this
question he was not ready to say exactly what he wanted or was willing
to countenance. Myrtle was a free agent, as was every other girl. She
could do as she pleased. It might not please him exactly but--he went
round and round from one problem to another, trying to untie this
Gordian knot. One thing, this home had appeared sweet and clean when he
came into it; now it was just a little tarnished, and by him! Or was it?
His mind was always asking this question. There was nothing that he was
actually accepting as true any more. He was going round in a ring asking
questions of this proposition and that. Are you true? And are you true?
And are you true? And all the while he was apparently not getting
anywhere. It puzzled him, this life. Sometimes it shamed him. This deed
shamed him. And he asked himself whether he was wrong to be ashamed or
not. Perhaps he was just foolish. Was not life made for living, not
worrying? He had not created his passions and desires.

He threw open the shutters and there was the bright day. Everything was
so green outside, the flowers in bloom, the trees casting a cool, lovely
shade, the birds twittering. Bees were humming. He could smell the
lilacs. "Dear God," he exclaimed, throwing his arms above his head, "How
lovely life is! How beautiful! Oh!" He drew in a deep breath of the
flower and privet laden air. If only he could live always like this--for
ever and ever.

When he