Pangbutt sighed, and turned his eyes inwards again towards the man who interested him most: “I begin to think,” said he, “that I have been living in a fools’ paradise.” Caroline’s eyes hardened: “There are worse things than a fools’ paradise,” she said. “The man who lives for himself alone may awake one day to find himself in a mad-house--one with all the other ghosts that flit about his prison--a shadow amongst shadows, seeking shadows.” “A shadow?” She nodded: “A shadow, Paul.... There is no woman in your life--no child--no care but for self. What does a childless, mateless man know of life? He has not taken up its most initial gifts. He avoids its responsibilities, its risks, its pains, its debt to God and man. Why should he expect, or even hope for, the joys of life? Who can know real delight who shirks the winning--or who shall find happiness that shrinks from sorrows?” He shrugged his shoulders impatiently: “Why should I become a part of the crowd?” he asked with contempt. “You cannot turn your back on your fellows--unless you are to grow an orchard of dead-sea apples,” she said. He sat silent for awhile. He gazed perplexedly at his ambitions: “I have made a career--have won its prizes. Until to-night I considered myself an object of envy.... I _am_ an object of envy.” “Tush!” she said. “Better be a microbe than a loveless man.” She laughed--but at the sight of his wrecked self-esteem falling about his wretched hunched shoulders the laughter left her eyes. She leaned forward: “Listen,” she said.... “As I sat here some days ago, I could have shrieked with terror--lest I should lose my boy. But I would rather go mad with such fear than never have known the possibility of it--than be as you are.... And for what? What is this Fame? Who gives it? Who are these demi-gods who award it?... They don’t even know their own minds for a generation--sometimes not for a year.... Supposing this Fame, then, to which you are giving your life, be _nothing_ at all!” She laughed sadly. “But we are getting quite serious,” she said; and rising to her feet she put her hand on his stooped shoulders: “Paul,” she said--“you are in love with a sad flirt--I should be ungallant, and break off the engagement. A woman could treat you no worse.” Paul rose, realizing his dismissal: “Ah, well, Caroline, old friend,” said he--“it is very late--I must be going.... You make me think of the old days when you kept us all in order in Paris.... Good-night! It is so long since anybody took sufficient interest in me to rate me.... Good-night!” He moved towards the door, saying as he went: “I must go and sit with my ghosts.... They never scold me--are never angry with me, beyond pulling an ugly face now and again--only they are so infernally dull.” She saw him to the door: “Good-night, Paul!” she said--and added, laughing: “Get you a wife--and learn to play with children.” She shut the door and went back to her task.