But five years ago--no, it was six--Hardy really told us a real story about himself. Necessarily the occasion is memorable in our recollections. We had dined at Lamb's, and the place was practically empty, for it was long after the theatre hour--only a drowsy waiter here and there, and away over in one corner a young couple who, I suppose, imagined themselves in love. Fancy being in love at Lamb's! We had been discussing, of all things in the world, bravery and conscience and cowardice and original sin, and that sort of business, and there was no question about it that Hardy was enjoying himself hugely. He was leaning upon the table, a coffee-cup between his relaxed brown hands, listening with an eagerness highly complimentary to the banal remarks we had to make upon the subject. "This is talk!" he ejaculated once with a laugh. Hill, against the combined attack of Jarrick and myself, was maintaining the argument. "There is no such thing as instinctive bravery," he affirmed, for the fifth time at least, "amongst intelligent men. Every one of us is naturally a coward. Of course we are. The more imagination we've got the more we can realize how pleasant life is, after all, and how rotten the adjuncts of sudden death. It's reason that does the trick--reason and tradition. Do you know of any one who is brave when he is alone--except, that is, when it is a case of self-preservation? No! Of course not. Did you ever hear of any one choosing to go along a dangerous road or to ford a dangerous river unless he had to--that is, any one of our class, any man of education or imagination? It's the greater fear of being thought afraid that makes us brave. Take a lawyer in a shipwreck--take myself! Don't you suppose he's frightened? Naturally he is, horribly frightened. It's his reason, his mind, that after a while gets the better of his poor pipe-stem legs and makes them keep pace with the sea-legs about them." "It's condition," said Jarrick doggedly--"condition entirely. All has to do with your liver and digestion. I know; I fox-hunt, and when I was younger--yes, leave my waist alone!--I rode jumping races. When you're fit there isn't a horse alive that bothers you, or a fence, for that matter, or a bit of water." "Ever try standing on a ship's deck, in the dark, knowing you're going to drown in about twenty minutes?" asked Hill. Hardy leaned forward to strike a match for his cigarette. "I don't agree with you," he said. "Well, but--" began Hill. "Neither of you." "Oh, of course, you're outside the argument. You lead an adventurous life. You keep in condition for danger. It isn't fair."