But these moods of passive happiness were interrupted more frequently than they had been in earlier years by the old whispering voice, now grown strangely distinct, which asked, but no longer through laughing lips, if it were possible to discern any purpose in life, and if all thoughts and things were not as vain as a little measure of sand.  The dark fruit that hangs so alluringly over the wall of the garden of life now met his eyes frequently, tempting him, and perforce he must stay to touch and consider it.  Then, resolved to baffle at all costs the disease which he now knew pursued him, he plunged in the crowd of drunkenness and debauchery which swelled the Strand at night.  He was found where prize-fighters brawled, and card-sharpers cajoled; where hall singers fed on truffled dishes, and courtesans laughed and called for champagne.  He was seen in Lubini’s sprawling over luncheon tables till late in the afternoon, and at nightfall lingering about the corners of the streets, talking to the women that passed.  In such low form of vice he sought escape.  He turned to gambling, risking large sums, sometimes imperilling his fortune for the sake of the assuagement such danger brought of the besetting sin.  But luck poured thousands into his hands; and he applied himself to the ruin of one seeking to bring about his death.

“Before I kill myself,” he said, “I will kill others; I’m weary of playing at Faust, now I’ll play at Mephistopheles.”

Henceforth all men who had money, or friends who had money, were invited to Temple Gardens.  You met there members of both Houses of Parliament—­the successors of Muchross and Snowdown; and men exquisitely dressed, with quick, penetrating eyes, assembled there, actors and owners of race-horses galore, and bright-complexioned young men of many affections.  Rising now from the piano one is heard to say reproachfully, “You never admire anything I wear,” to a grave friend who had passed some criticism on the flower in the young man’s button-hole.

It was still early in the evening, and the usual company had not yet arrived.  Harding stood on the white fur hearthrug, his legs slightly apart, smoking.  Mike lay in an easy-chair.  His eyes were upon Harding, whom he had not seen for some years, and the sight of him recalled the years when they wrote the Pilgrim together.

He thought how splendid were then his enthusiasms and how genuine his delight in life.  It was in this very room that he kissed Lily for the first time.  That happy day.  Well did he remember how the sun shone upon the great river, how the hay-boats sailed, how the city rose like a vision out of the mist.  But Lily lies asleep, far away in a southern land; she lies sleeping, facing Italy—­that Italy which they should have seen and dreamed together.  At that moment, he brushed from his book a little green insect that had come out of the night, and it disappeared in faint dust.