"You are the only really satisfactory people I know," he said presently--"the only people who know how to enjoy life, so far as it is to be enjoyed." "You mustn't give me any credit for it; it's all Aunt Marcelle's doing. But I don't think I know what you mean exactly. Perhaps we oughtn't to feel flattered?" "I mean, you are the only people who understand that happiness doesn't depend on what one does or doesn't do--that it all depends on the point of view." "The way of looking at life generally?" she hazarded. "Precisely. True philosophy only admits one point of view--from outside. Aren't we always being told that life is only a play? Well, we clever people are the spectators, the audience. We look at the play from a comfortable seat in the stalls; and when the curtain drops at the end, we go home quietly and--sleep." Mary looked at him for a moment silently. "I'm not at all sure that we ought to feel flattered! You consider that you and I and her ladyship are spectators, then. Isn't it very selfish?" "More or less. Of course, it's impossible to do the thing thoroughly without being absolutely selfish--a hermit, in fact. I sometimes think I was intended for a hermit." Mary sighed covertly, though the smile still lingered in her brown eyes. "I'm afraid I only take a kind of sideways view of things. I should like to--to----" "To go up in a kind of moral balloon," suggested Rainham laughingly, "and get a bird's-eye view of life?" "Exactly; and drift about. Only then one would never get really interested in anything or anybody. I should want someone else in the balloon." "You must take me," said Rainham, still smiling. Mary looked at him quickly, and then turned away, shivering a little. "What nonsense we are talking!" she said suddenly. "And I'm afraid it isn't even original nonsense. We don't, really, want to be selfish, and we're not; you needn't pretend you are. And isn't it getting very, very late? Don't you think Mrs. Lightmark looks as if we ought to go? I don't mean that she looks inhospitable. But isn't she rather pale and tired? This sort of thing doesn't seem to suit her as well as her husband. Yes, I must really go." When Miss Masters had deserted him, after extracting a promise that he would take an early opportunity of paying his over-due respects to her aunt, and had gone with Mrs. Lightmark in search of the old lady, Rainham made his adieux, leaving Lightmark still radiant, and protesting hospitably against such early hours; and as he walked homewards, with a cigar unlighted between his lips, he smiled rather bitterly, as he thought how little he was able to adhere to the tenets of his philosophy. Why else should he regret so much and so often the act which had been rung down when ... And how many more acts and scenes were there to be?