“Repentance is said to be its cure, sir.”

“It is not its cure.  Reformation may be its cure; and I could reform —­ I have strength yet for that —­ if —­ but where is the use of thinking of it, hampered, burdened, cursed as I am?  Besides, since happiness is irrevocably denied me, I have a right to get pleasure out of life:  and I will get it, cost what it may.”

“Then you will degenerate still more, sir.”

“Possibly:  yet why should I, if I can get sweet, fresh pleasure?  And I may get it as sweet and fresh as the wild honey the bee gathers on the moor.”

“It will sting —­ it will taste bitter, sir.”

“How do you know? —­ you never tried it.  How very serious —­ how very solemn you look:  and you are as ignorant of the matter as this cameo head” (taking one from the mantelpiece).  “You have no right to preach to me, you neophyte, that have not passed the porch of life, and are absolutely unacquainted with its mysteries.”

“I only remind you of your own words, sir:  you said error brought remorse, and you pronounced remorse the poison of existence.”

“And who talks of error now?  I scarcely think the notion that flittered across my brain was an error.  I believe it was an inspiration rather than a temptation:  it was very genial, very soothing —­ I know that.  Here it comes again!  It is no devil, I assure you; or if it be, it has put on the robes of an angel of light.  I think I must admit so fair a guest when it asks entrance to my heart.”

“Distrust it, sir; it is not a true angel.”

“Once more, how do you know?  By what instinct do you pretend to distinguish between a fallen seraph of the abyss and a messenger from the eternal throne —­ between a guide and a seducer?”

“I judged by your countenance, sir, which was troubled when you said the suggestion had returned upon you.  I feel sure it will work you more misery if you listen to it.”

“Not at all —­ it bears the most gracious message in the world:  for the rest, you are not my conscience-keeper, so don’t make yourself uneasy.  Here, come in, bonny wanderer!”

He said this as if he spoke to a vision, viewless to any eye but his own; then, folding his arms, which he had half extended, on his chest, he seemed to enclose in their embrace the invisible being.

“Now,” he continued, again addressing me, “I have received the pilgrim —­ a disguised deity, as I verily believe.  Already it has done me good:  my heart was a sort of charnel; it will now be a shrine.”

“To speak truth, sir, I don’t understand you at all:  I cannot keep up the conversation, because it has got out of my depth.  Only one thing, I know:  you said you were not as good as you should like to be, and that you regretted your own imperfection; —­ one thing I can comprehend:  you intimated that to have a sullied memory was a perpetual bane.  It seems to me, that if you tried hard, you would in time find it possible to become what you yourself would approve; and that if from this day you began with resolution to correct your thoughts and actions, you would in a few years have laid up a new and stainless store of recollections, to which you might revert with pleasure.”