The two men followed their associated and disconnected paths.  Through Benham’s chance speeches and notes, White caught glimpses, as one might catch glimpses through a moving trellis, of that bilateral adventure.  He saw Benham in conversation with liberal-minded mandarins, grave-faced, bald-browed persons with disciplined movements, who sat with their hands thrust into their sleeves talking excellent English; while Prothero pursued enquiries of an intenser, more recondite sort with gentlemen of a more confidential type.  And, presently, Prothero began to discover and discuss the merits of opium.

For if one is to disavow all pride and priggishness, if one is to find the solution of life’s problem in the rational enjoyment of one’s sensations, why should one not use opium?  It is art materialized.  It gives tremendous experiences with a minimum of exertion, and if presently its gifts diminish one need but increase the quantity.  Moreover, it quickens the garrulous mind, and steadies the happiness of love.  Across the varied adventures of Benham’s journey in China fell the shadow first of a suspicion and then of a certainty. . . .

The perfected and ancient vices of China wrapped about Prothero like some tainted but scented robe, and all too late Benham sought to drag him away.  And then in a passion of disgust turned from him.

“To this,” cried Benham, “one comes!  Save for pride and fierceness!”

“Better this than cruelty,” said Prothero talking quickly and clearly because of the evil thing in his veins.  “You think that you are the only explorer of life, Benham, but while you toil up the mountains I board the house-boat and float down the stream.  For you the stars, for me the music and the lanterns.  You are the son of a mountaineering don, and I am a Chinese philosopher of the riper school.  You force yourself beyond fear of pain, and I force myself beyond fear of consequences.  What are we either of us but children groping under the black cloak of our Maker?—­who will not blind us with his light.  Did he not give us also these lusts, the keen knife and the sweetness, these sensations that are like pineapple smeared with saltpetre, like salted olives from heaven, like being flayed with delight. . . .  And did he not give us dreams fantastic beyond any lust whatever?  What is the good of talking?  Speak to your own kind.  I have gone, Benham.  I am lost already.  There is no resisting any more, since I have drugged away resistance.  Why then should I come back?  I know now the symphonies of the exalted nerves; I can judge; and I say better lie and hear them to the end than come back again to my old life, to my little tin-whistle solo, my—­effort!  My effort! . . .  I ruin my body.  I know.  But what of that? . . .  I shall soon be thin and filthy.  What of the grape-skin when one has had the pulp?”

“But,” said Benham, “the cleanness of life!”