"How are you?" he said. "I can see it is time I called. Let me look at your face. Yes," he said, after a long scrutiny, "selfish. You think too much of your comfort. You don't believe in anything: there is a self-satisfied superior hardness in your eyes. You have not cried for years. You profess to feel sorry for people, but your philosophy is stronger than your pity. When did you last do an impulsive thing?" "Impulse," I said, "is largely a matter of inexperience. I have seen a deal of the world." (At the same time I felt that he was doing me a vile injustice. I really was, I remember thinking, a very kind man.) "Also," he added, "you're getting fat." "No," I said, "not fat. That's merely the solidity of age. Remember, I'm getting on." "Remember," he said bitterly. "How can I forget it? That is why I'm here." "What do you mean?" I asked him. "Mean! My dear fellow, I have been watching you for years--ever since you dropped me, in fact, and I've longed to get a good straight talk with you; but I wasn't allowed. Nothing can happen till it is time." "And why," I asked, trembling and chilling a little, "is it time to-night?" (But I knew why.) "I can't say," he replied, "but here I am. Let's see, how old exactly are you?" "Fifty-five." "Is it so long? How do you spend your time? What do you do?" "Oh," I said, "I've retired. I read a good deal. I visit my friends. I walk about and talk to people. What should I do?" "Do you ever get drunk?" he asked. "Certainly not," I said. "No, I thought not," he replied, with a sneer. "Nothing so enterprising. You keep on the safe side. But don't forget your old views as to the value of the occasional lapse--let me see, what were the words?--'the humanising influence of the orgy.' You've grown out of all that, I suppose." "One's health does not admit it at my age," I said. "Health!" he echoed. "Of course. I had forgotten that. Or rather, I have laughed at it so long. But tell me, don't you remember me at all? We were very happy, weren't we?" "Fairly," I said. "Have you gone back on everything?" he continued. "All those old schemes over the red wine in Soho? We were to do such things! We were to be so keen for the best, and the best only. The best work and the best emotions. We were to help so frankly. We were to do so much to break down the bad barriers between men and women; and now, tell me, what have you to show for it all?" I didn't feel very comfortable. "What have you ever done for any one?" How can one answer questions like that? I had not been so utterly unhelpful, I knew, but I could not begin a catalogue of my beneficences; it was too ridiculous. "What have you done for any one to-day?" he went on. I said nothing. "Where did you dine to-night?" "To-night I dined at my club." "What did you do after?" "I smoked a cigar, read the papers and skimmed a novel, and then came back." "Did you speak to any one?" "No one, except a waiter."