“I remember,” said Fenton, lighting a fresh cigar, and rambling on musingly, “that when I conceived the story I was actuated by the feeling that men take themselves and their affairs too seriously. There seemed to me to be something grimly ludicrous about the vast majority of men, who fuss around for a few years on an insignificant planet in an out-of-the-way corner of space, as if they had been placed here for eternity, and were individually of tremendous significance to the universe at large. I worked out the story on lines intended to show, in a comparatively small compass, that we are as powerless and unimportant in the infinite realm of existence as the foolish little flies that buzz so loud on a summer’s day. If I should rewrite the story to-day, I am not quite sure that I should take so hopeless a view of the significance of human life. As I have grown older, I have become more inclined to think that no man has a right to consider himself of no importance in the _tout ensemble_ of the universe; not, at least, until it is proved conclusively that there is no such thing as a soul possessing eternal life. At all events, if we are _ephemeræ_, I am sure that one fly has as much right as another to the sunshine of the noonday. And so I make of an economic theory a religion,--for want of a better.” Fenton’s sarcastic smile played across his mouth again as he ceased speaking. Richard had put on his overcoat, and was holding out his hand for the manuscript of Fenton’s novel. “Let me take the story with me, John,” he said. “I want to read it. I am rather inclined to think, from what I know of the present literary market, that now is the appointed time for you to win fame in the realm of letters.” Fenton, after a moment’s hesitancy, handed the scroll to his friend. “I am not ambitious in that line,” he said firmly; “but it will do no harm to have you read the book.” “And you will go to Mrs. Percy-Bartlett’s with me?” Richard exclaimed smilingly. “I am very glad, John, I assure you. I’m sure that our hostess will feel that you have paid her a great compliment.” Fenton smiled, almost bitterly; and, as if memory had sharpened his tongue, he said, as he held Richard’s hand a moment,-- “I gave that up long ago, my boy. Paying a compliment to a woman is like giving sugar-plums to a child. It establishes a precedent, and begets an appetite. Never tell a woman a thing you don’t mean, Richard; especially a married woman.” CHAPTER IX. “Men used to be divided into two classes, you know, Mr. Fenton,--those who belonged to our set, and those who did not.”