"My own suspicion is," I ventured to suggest, "that there is a growing disinclination to be born anywhere, and this new privilege of free choice will simply bring matters to a climax. Your folks, confronted by the endless problem of choosing their own country and century, their own family and their own religion, will dilly-dally and shilly-shally and put off birth so long that they will never change their condition at all. They will come to the conviction that it is better not to be born; better to bear the evils that they know than fly to others that they know not of. What if the immigration of destitute little aliens into our planet ceased altogether?" Marindin shrugged his shoulders, and there came into his face that indescribable look of the hopeless mystic. "Then humanity would have reached its goal: it would come naturally and gently to an end. The euthanasia of the race would be accomplished, and the glorified planet, cleansed of wickedness at last, would take up its part again in the chorus of the spheres. But like most ideals, I fear this is but a pleasant dream." Then, as the publisher turned away to replace the P. Ts. in a safe, he added softly: "Intelligence is never likely to be so widely diffused in Ante-land that the masses would fight shy of birth. There would always be a sufficient proportion of unborn fools left who would prefer the palpabilities of bodily form to the insubstantialities of pre-natal existence. Between you and me, our friend the publisher is extremely anxious to be published." "And yet he seems intelligent enough," I argued. "Ah, well, it cannot be denied that there are _some_ lives decidedly worth living, and our friend Fore will probably bring up his parents to the same profession as himself." "No doubt there would always be competition for the best _births_," I observed, smiling. "Yes," replied Marindin sadly; "the struggle for existence will always continue among the unborn." Suddenly a thought set me a-grin. "Why, what difference can the choice of parents make after all?" I cried. "Suppose you had picked my parents--you would have been I, and I should be somebody else, and somebody else would be you. And there would be the three of us, just the same as now," and I chuckled aloud. "You seem to have had pleasant dreams, old man," replied Marindin. But his voice sounded strange and far away. * * * * * I opened my eyes wide in astonishment, and saw him buried in an easy-chair, with a book in his hand and two tears rolling down his cheeks. "I've been reading of Tiny Tim while you snoozed," he said apologetically. XXIII PATER AND PROSE It seems only yesterday--and it is only yesteryear--since Walter Pater sat by my side in a Club garden, and listened eloquently to my after-lunch _causerie_, and now he is gone To where, beyond the Voices, there is Peace.