“Yes, more or less. You can’t deny we are only like midges, coming from nowhere, and vanishing nowhere; or at best, ants hurrying and scurrying over an ant-hill. ‘Life is a tale, told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.’” “Ah, no! no!” she cried, turning to him with a beseeching look in her eyes. “If that were so, where would be the use of all its sacrifices, and conquests, and nobleness?” “Where is the use of them?” in callous tones. She looked at him blankly a moment, then got up and walked to the water’s edge, feeling almost as if he had struck her. After a moment he followed, and stood beside her, idly tossing pebbles into the water. “Take my advice, Eileen,” he said, “and don’t get into the way of caring too much about things. It’s a mistake. Later on, your feelings will only turn, and hit you in the face.” “And what is it your favourite poet, Browning, says?” she repeated half to herself— “One who never turned his back, but marched breast forward, Never doubted clouds would break, Never dreamed though right were worsted, wrong would triumph, Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better, Sleep to wake.” “It sounded well,” he sneered. “No doubt if I were to write a novel it would be full of beautiful sentiments that sounded well—and I should care that for them in my heart,” and he snapped his fingers carelessly. She looked up and descried Jack and Paddy coming over the Loch toward them. “Here are the others,” she said, almost with an air of relief. “They have just seen us and are coming in.” “Hullo!” cried Paddy, as they came within earshot. “I hope your Serene Highness is well.” “Very well, thank you,” replied Lawrence, giving her his hand as the boat reached the landing-stage. “I was just remarking to your sister, that you had not succeeded in getting yourself transported to a better clime yet!” “No, the old proverb seems to be reversed in my case, I am not too good to live, but too good to die.” “Or else too bad, and so you are always getting another chance given you,” remarked Jack. “Be quiet, Jack O’Hara, for the pot to call the kettle black is the height of meanness. Come out of that boat and say ‘how do you do’ prettily to this great man from abroad,” and her brown eyes shone bewitchingly. Everybody in the neighbourhood teased Paddy, and Lawrence was no exception. “’Pon my soul!” he exclaimed with feigned surprise, “I believe you’re growing pretty, Paddy.” “Nothing so commonplace,” tossing her small head jauntily. “What you take for mere prettiness is really _soul_. I am developing a high-minded, noble, sanctified expression; as I consider it very becoming to my general style of conversation. Father thinks it is ‘liver,’ but that unfortunately is his lack of appreciation, and also his saving grace for all peculiarities.”