“Yes?” queried Carriston interrogatively; “in what way?” “I have not the capability of enjoying the blessings I possess.” “How so? Explain this riddle.” “I cannot explain it. I simply take no pleasure in life. Rich or poor, old or young, well or ill, I would still be as miserable as I am now.” “Hum! Let us look at the question from three points of view—comprehensive points. The legal, the medicinal, the religious. One of these, if properly applied, will surely solve the enigma.” “I doubt it.” “Ah, that is because you have made up your mind to doubt. ‘None so blind as those who won’t see.’” “Who is quoting proverbs now, Mr. Carriston?” “I am, sir, even I who dislike such arid chips of wisdom; but ’tis an excellent proverb, which has borne the wear and tear of centuries. Come now, Maurice, are you in any trouble connected with money? are you involved in any law-suit, or—or—well,” said the Rector, delicately eying his glass, “I hardly know how to put it,—er—er—are you involved in any love affair?” “No; my worldly position is all right, and I am not mixed up in any feminine trouble.” “Good! that settles the legal point. Now for the medical. Your liver must be out of order.” “I assure you, sir, I never felt better in my life.” Mr. Carriston’s face now assumed a grave expression as he put the last question to his host. “And the religious point?” “I am not troubled on that score, sir.” The Rev. Stephen looked doubtful. “Whatever my religious views may be,” resumed Maurice, seeing the Rector was but half convinced, “and I am afraid they can hardly be called orthodox, I at least can safely say that my past life is not open to misconstruction.” “Good! good! I always had confidence in you, Maurice. Yours is not the nature to find pleasure in gutter-raking. Well, it seems that none of those three points meet the case. Can you not give me some understandable reason for this melancholy which renders your life so bitter?” “No. I went to London full of joy, energy, and ambition; but in some way—I cannot tell you how—I lost all those feelings. First joy departed, then ambition fled away, and with these two feelings absent I felt no further energy to do anything. It may be satiety, certainly. I have explored the heights and depths of London life, I have read books new and old, I have studied as far as in me lay my fellow-men, I have tried to fall in love with my fellow-women—and failed dismally. In fact, Mr. Carriston, I have exhausted the world, and find it as empty as this.” He held up a nut which he had just cracked, and it contained no kernel—an apt illustration of his wasted life.