'It is not for your opinions,' said the Professor, 'but for the horrible effect they might have. Opinions,' he roared, 'can only be tolerated which have no possible consequences. You may promulgate any of those as much as you like; because to do that would be a self-regarding action.' CHAPTER XII. 'Well,' said the curate, 'if I may not kiss Virginia, I will drink brandy instead. That will make me happy enough; and then we shall all be radiant.' He soon put his resolve into practice. He got a bottle of brandy, he sat himself down under a palm-tree, and told the Professor he was going to make an afternoon of it. 'Foolish man!' said the Professor; 'I was never drunk myself, it is true; but I know that to get drunk makes one's head ache horribly. To get drunk is, therefore, horribly immoral; and therefore I cannot permit it.' 'Excuse me,' said the curate; 'it is a self-regarding action. Nobody's head will ache but mine; so that is my own look-out. I have been expelled from school, from college, and from my first curacy for drinking. So I know well enough the balance of pains and pleasures.' Here he pulled out his brandy bottle, and applied his lips to it. 'Oh, Humanity!' he exclaimed, 'how solemn this brandy tastes!' Matters went on like this for several days. The curate was too much frightened to again approach Virginia. Virginia at last became convinced that he did not care about kissing her. Her vanity was wounded, and she became sullen; and this made the Professor sullen also. In fact, two thirds of Humanity were overcast with gloom. The only happy section of it was the curate, who alternately smoked and drank all day long. 'The nasty little beast!' said Virginia to the Professor, 'he is nearly always drunk. I am beginning quite to like you, Paul, by comparison with him. Let us turn him out, and not let him live in the cottage.' 'No,' said the Professor; 'for he is one third of Humanity. You do not properly appreciate the solidarity of mankind. His existence, however, I admit is a great difficulty.' One day at dinner-time, shortly afterwards, Paul came in radiant. 'Oh holy, oh happy event!' he exclaimed; 'all will go right at last.' Virginia inquired anxiously what had happened, and Paul informed her that the curate, who had got more drunk than usual that afternoon, had fallen over a cliff, and been dashed to pieces. 'What event,' he asked, 'could be more charming more unspeakably holy? It bears about it every mark of sanctity. It is for the greatest happiness of the greatest number. Come,' he continued, 'let you and me together, purged of sin, and purged of sorrow as we are--let us begin our love-feast. Let us each seek the happiness of the other. Let us instantly be sublime and happy.' CHAPTER XIII.