“That is all very beautiful and fresh,” said Lefevre, “but—­”

“But,” interrupted Julius, “it is not a new truth:  the poet divined it ages ago!  Buddha, thousands of years ago, perceived it, and taught that ‘all life is linked and kin;’ so did the Egyptians and the Greeks, when they worshipped the principle of life everywhere; and so did our own barbaric ancestors, when the woods—­the wonderful, mystic woods!—­were their temples.  Life—­the spirit of life!—­is always beautiful; always to be desired and worshipped!”

“Yes,” said old Dr Rippon, who had listened to this astonishing rhapsody with evident interest, with sympathetic and intelligent eye; “but a time will come even to you, when death will appear more beautiful and friendly and desirable than life.”

Courtney was silent, and looked for a second or two deadly sick.  He cast a searching eye on Dr Rippon.

“That’s the one thought,” said he, “that makes me sometimes feel as if I were already under the horror of the shade.  It’s not that I am afraid of dying—­of merely ceasing to live; it is that life may cease to be delightful and friendly, and become an intolerable, decaying burden.”

He filled a glass with Burgundy, and set himself attentively to drink it, lingering on the bouquet and the flavour.  Lefevre beheld him with surprise, for he had never before seen Julius take wine:  he was wont to say that converse with good company was intoxicating enough for him.

“Why, Julius,” said Lefevre, “that’s a new experience you are trying,—­is it not?”

Julius looked embarrassed an instant, and then replied, “I have begun it very recently.  I did not think it wise to postpone the experience till it might become an absolute necessity.”

Old Dr Rippon watched him empty the glass with a musing eye. “’I sought in mine heart,’” said he, gravely quoting, “’to give myself unto wine, yet acquainting mine heart with wisdom.’”

“True,” said Julius, considering him closely.  “But, for completeness’ sake, you ought to quote also, ’Whatsoever mine eyes desired I kept not from them; I withheld not my heart from any joy.’”

Lefevre looked from the one to the other in some darkness of perplexity.

“You appear, John,” said the old doctor, with a smile, “not to know one of the oldest and greatest of books:  you will find it included in your Bible.  Mr Courtney clearly knows it.  I should not be surprised to hear he had adopted its philosophy of ‘wisdom and madness and folly.’”

“Surely you cannot say,” remarked Julius, “that the writer of that book had what is called a ‘philosophy.’  He was moved by an irresistible impulse, of which he gives you the explanation when he uses that magnificent sentence about having ‘the world set in his heart.’”

“Yes,” said the old doctor, in a subdued, backward voice, regarding Julius with the contemplative eyes of memory.  “You will, I hope, forgive me when I say that you remind me very much of a gentleman who took the name of Courtney.  I knew him years ago:  was he a relation of yours, I wonder?”