In the same way I have always hated the custom which obtains amongst many people, of never speaking at all of those who have "crossed the flood," or else of speaking of them in an entirely unnatural tone of voice, and making use of such prefixes as "dear" or "poor." Such a custom, to my mind, gives the indirect lie to all Christian teaching as to the resurrection of the dead and the life of the world to come, and is only fit for those who sorrow without hope. I maintain that those whom we falsely call our dead should be spoken of as naturally and as frequently as those whom we--making a distinction without a difference--choose to call our living. It always irritates me when Annabel says "dear Papa" and "poor Mamma": she would never have dreamed of using either adjective in the days when our parents were still with us at Restham: and to do it now creates a sort of artificial atmosphere about them, which I, for one, resent. "I dare say it is awfully vain and presumptuous on my part," Arthur continued, "to think that my coming or going would make much difference to you: but if I was any comfort to you at all, I should hate to take it away from you just when you have had and are having such a rough time." I was touched by Arthur's unselfishness: and also remorseful at the realisation of what little difference his or anybody else's coming or going made to me now. I put my hand on his arm, as we sat smoking by the library fire. "You mustn't get that notion into your head, old man: it would make me ever so much more miserable than I am at present if I felt I had in any way hindered your career. It is always bad policy to throw good money after bad; and I am bad money and you are good, as far as economic currency is concerned. Don't think me ungrateful for all you have done for me, because I am not." "Rubbish!" growled Arthur. "I've done nothing for you at all." "Yes, you have: you've been as true a friend to me as man ever had. You've done a lot for me during the beastly time I've gone through." "Then let me stay on here, and go on doing a lot for you. I ask for nothing better." Then I felt it was time to be brutal and to speak the unvarnished truth. "You've done all you can for me, old man: I hate to say it, but it's the truth. If you stayed on here, you won't do me any more good, and you'd have spoilt your career for nothing. You did help me at first, I admit, and I shall be always grateful for it. But to be perfectly candid with you--though I hate candour, mind you, and would never employ such a painful weapon unless I felt it to be absolutely necessary--neither you nor anybody else can help me now." "Except Fay," suggested Arthur, hardly above a whisper, as if he were referring to some one who had been buried for years.