two of the cells that opened thereupon, each a delightful house for a solitary, bookish and clean, and each with a little secret walled garden of its own.  He was covertly tipped against all regulations and departed regretfully with a beaming dismissal from Amanda.  She found Benham wondering why the Carthusians had failed to produce anything better in the world than a liqueur.  “One might have imagined that men would have done something in this beautiful quiet; that there would have come thought from here or will from here.”

“In these dear little nests they ought to have put lovers,” said Amanda.

“Oh, of course, you would have made the place Thelema. . . .”

But as they went shaking and bumping back along the evil road to Milan, he fell into a deep musing.  Suddenly he said, “Work has to be done.  Because this order or that has failed, there is no reason why we should fail.  And look at those ragged children in the road ahead of us, and those dirty women sitting in the doorways, and the foul ugliness of these gaunt nameless towns through which we go!  They are what they are, because we are what we are—­idlers, excursionists.  In a world we ought to rule. . . .

“Amanda, we’ve got to get to work. . . .”

That was his first display of this new mood, which presently became a common one.  He was less and less content to let the happy hours slip by, more and more sensitive to the reminders in giant ruin and deserted cell, in a chance encounter with a string of guns and soldiers on their way to manoeuvres or in the sight of a stale newspaper, of a great world process going on in which he was now playing no part at all.  And a curious irritability manifested itself more and more plainly, whenever human pettiness obtruded upon his attention, whenever some trivial dishonesty, some manifest slovenliness, some spiritless failure, a cheating waiter or a wayside beggar brought before him the shiftless, selfish, aimless elements in humanity that war against the great dream of life made glorious.  “Accursed things,” he would say, as he flung some importunate cripple at a church door a ten-centime piece; “why were they born?  Why do they consent to live?  They are no better than some chance fungus that is because it must.”

“It takes all sorts to make a world,” said Amanda.

“Nonsense,” said Benham.  “Where is the megatherium?  That sort of creature has to go.  Our sort of creature has to end it.”

“Then why did you give it money?”

“Because—­ I don’t want the thing to be more wretched than it is.  But if I could prevent more of them—­ . . .  What am I doing to prevent them?”

“These beggars annoy you,” said Amanda after a pause.  “They do me.  Let us go back into the mountains.”

But he fretted in the mountains.