"A very strange illness!" he said, in the same jarring accents. "Remorse! Have you never heard of it, Geoffrey? Neither medicine nor surgery are of any avail,--it is 'the worm that dieth not, and the flame that cannot be quenched.' Tut!--let us not talk of it,--no one can cure me,--no one will! I am past hope!" "But remorse,--if you have it, and I cannot possibly imagine why, for you have surely nothing to regret,--is not a physical ailment!" I said wonderingly. "And physical ailments are the only ones worth troubling about, you think?" he queried, still smiling that strained and haggard smile--"The body is our chief care,--we cosset it, and make much of it, feed it and pamper it, and guard it from so much as a pin-prick of pain if we can,--and thus we flatter ourselves that all is well,--all _must_ be well! Yet it is but a clay chrysalis, bound to split and crumble with the growth of the moth-soul within,--the moth that flies with blind instinctiveness straight into the Unknown, and is dazzled by excess of light! Look out here,"--he went on with an abrupt and softer change of tone--"Look out at the dreamful shadowy beauty of your gardens now! The flowers are asleep,--the trees are surely glad to be disburdened of all the gaudy artificial lamps that lately hung upon their branches,--there is the young moon pillowing her chin on the edge of a little cloud and sinking to sleep in the west,--a moment ago there was a late nightingale awake and singing. You can feel the breath of the roses from the trellis yonder! All this is Nature's work,--and how much fairer and sweeter it is now than when the lights were ablaze and the blare of band-music startled the small birds in their downy nests!--Yet 'society' would not appreciate this cool dusk, this happy solitude;--'society' prefers a false glare to all true radiance. And what is worse it tries to make true things take a second place as adjuncts to sham ones,--and there comes in the mischief." "It is just like you to run down your own indefatigable labours in the splendid successes of the day,"--I said laughing--"You may call it a 'false glare' if you like, but it has been a most magnificent spectacle,--and certainly in the way of entertainments it will never be equalled or excelled." "It will make you more talked about than even your 'boomed' book could do!" said Lucio, eyeing me narrowly. "Not the least doubt of that!" I replied--"Society prefers food and amusement to any literature,--even the greatest. By-the-by, where are all the 'artistes,'--the musicians and dancers?" "Gone!" "Gone!" I echoed amazedly--"Already! Good heavens! have they had supper?" "They have had everything they want, even to their pay," said Lucio, a trifle impatiently--"Did I not tell you Geoffrey, that when I undertake to do anything, I do it thoroughly or not at all?" I looked at him,--he smiled, but his eyes were sombre and scornful.