“You think me a cynic, of course; I am nothing so futile, Miss Sabine. A cynic is just a posing ass proud of his attitude. I see nothing to be proud of in my attitude, just as I see nothing to be proud of in the truths of existence.” “Suppose you had been poor?” “My senses would be lasting better than they are; and when they at last failed I should die quicker from want of food and warmth--that’s all.” “Have you ever been in love, Mr. Vaness?” “I am in love now.” “And your love has no element of devotion, no finer side?” “None. It wants.” “I have never been in love. But, if I were, I think I should want to lose myself rather than to gain the other.” “Would you? Sabine, _I am in love with you_.” “Oh! Shall we walk on?” I heard their footsteps and was alone again, with the old gardener lopping at his shrubs. But what a perfect declaration of hedonism; how simple and how solid was this Vaness theory of existence! Almost Assyrian--worthy of Louis Quinze! And just then the old negro came up. “It’s pleasant settin’,” he said in his polite and hoarse half whisper; “dar ain’t no flies yet.” “It’s perfect, Richard. This is the most beautiful spot in the world.” “Sure,” he answered, softly drawling. “In de war time de Yanks nearly burn d’house heah. Sherman’s Yanks. Sure dey did, po’ful angry wi’ ole Massa dey was, ’cos he hid up d’ silver plate afore he went away. My ole father was de factotalum den. De Yanks took’m, suh; dey took’m; and de major he tell my fader to show’m whar de plate was. My ole fader he look at’m an’ say: ‘Wot yuh take me foh? Yuh take me for a sneakin’ nigger? No, suh, yuh do wot yuh like wid dis chile he ain’t goin’ to act no Judas. No, suh!’ And de Yankee major he put’m up against dat tall live-oak dar, an’ he say: ‘Yu darn ungrateful nigger. I’se come all dis way to set yuh free. Now, whar’s dat silver plate or I shoot yuh up, sure!’ ‘No, suh,’ says my fader, ‘shoot away. I’se never goin’ t’tell.’ So dey begin to shoot, and shot all roun’m to skeer’m up. I was a lil’ boy den, an’ I see my ole fader wid my own eyes, suh, standin’ thar’s bold’s Peter. No, suh, dey didn’t never get no word from him; he loved de folk heah; sure he did.” The old man smiled; and in that beatific smile I saw not only his perennial pleasure in the well-known story, but the fact that he too would have stood there with the bullets raining round him sooner than betray the folk he loved. “Fine story, Richard. But--very silly obstinate old man, your father, wasn’t he?” He looked at me with a sort of startled anger, which slowly broadened into a grin; then broke into soft hoarse laughter. “Oh! yes, suh, sure! Berry silly obstinacious ole man. Yes, suh, indeed!” And he went off cackling to himself. He had only just gone when I heard footsteps again behind my azalea clump and Miss Monroy’s voice: “Your philosophy is that of faun and nymph. But can you play the part?”